


A Sense Of Home

by snowhite_dahlia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But They Will Happen - Freeform, Can't blame a woman for shooting her shot, Cunnilingus, Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, Daenerys Targaryen Lives, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Frottage, I Fixed Everything That Pissed Me Off, Kissing, M/M, Magic Fingers, Non-Penetrative Sex, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell - Freeform, Past Sexual Assault, Past Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Slow Burn, Theon Greyjoy Lives, Trauma, Yara Greyjoy definitely tries flirting with the Queen in the North, You Will Have To Wait For The Sexy Times, like the slowest of burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:21:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 42,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23320876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowhite_dahlia/pseuds/snowhite_dahlia
Summary: In another world, Theon Greyjoy survives the Battle of Winterfell and returns home to Pyke. That should be that, until the Dragon Queen proposes an alliance between the North and the Iron Islands. Now, Sansa Stark must decide what, exactly, is the nature of her relationship to Theon Greyjoy.
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Comments: 62
Kudos: 189





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Like so many others, the final season of Game of Thrones infuriated me so much that, after not having written any fanfic for probably six or seven years, I decided to blow the dust off the keyboard and get back to it. I jotted down the first 1,000 words or so of this right after the end of the season, but then it sat and sat and sat and I worried I might never finish it. So, it became my NaNoWriMo project for 2019. And then it sat and sat and sat again. And now, in the midst of a pandemic, I finally have the time to edit it!
> 
> I say all this to explain that this is not particularly great writing - its main purpose was for me to get the rust out of my writing gears and also to give this soft, precious ship the ending it deserves. So, I apologize in advance for the clunky bits and hope that you enjoy!

Sansa Stark anxiously tapped her finger on the desk.

She had a ledger laid out before her – an accounting of recent taxations on the various lords of the North – that, in theory, she was meant to be reviewing. In practice, however, she had long ago given up attempting to make sense of any of it: the columns of numbers that filled the page had slowly blurred into one long smear of ink, until she realized she had re-read the same line twenty times without absorbing any of its contents.

So instead, the ledger was now relegated to the essential task of making it appear to any visitors to the Lady of Winterfell’s private chambers that she was hard at work and _certainly_ not staring absently out her window.

_Not only Lady of Winterfell,_ she thought. _The Queen of the North, too._

She took a long breath and closed her eyes, stilling her twitchy finger.

The North had warmed considerably in the last fortnight and a streak of sunlight had penetrated the clouds that hung over Winterfell even in the nicest of seasons. Her chambers were more temperate than usual this afternoon and as a result, Sansa had let the morning’s fire die out in the hearth.

Opening her eyes, she surveyed her room. 

With the sunlight, her chambers were brighter than normal as well. After her return from the summit at King’s Landing – _surely the Dragon Queen will rename that as well?_ – she’d had her maids work to refresh her chambers. Winterfell had been held by several different men since her lord father’s journey south what felt like a thousand years ago. And of course, the last occupant of these particular chambers had seen to it that the place be stripped of all reminders of House Stark. When Sansa had finally acquiesced to rooming here, her first inclination had been to restore the rooms to their state when her mother and father called them home. But, she’d quickly shelved such childish notions. The world was moving forward and so should she.

What few personal effects remained from her childhood adorned the shelf above the hearth, including one of her first embroidery tasks: a sampler with a wolf and a flower she had once seen in an old book. A new tapestry, featuring an elaborate motif of the Godswood, hung on the wall opposite her bed, while the space next to it sat empty, waiting for its companion piece to be completed. New furs adorned the bed and she’d had the two chairs by the hearth re-tufted.

Of course, she herself had yet to enjoy the fresh stuffing, preferring instead to sit at her desk. Sitting across from an empty chair at night served to only remind her that she was now, essentially, alone: Arya had sailed west and Bran and Jon and even Brienne had gone south to King’s Landing. She was the last Stark at Winterfell. The last Stark in the North.

Loneliness, of course, was no foreign concept to Sansa. Her adolescence had begun with an abrupt introduction to it, traveling to King’s Landing and quickly finding herself stripped of her entire family and anyone who might call themselves loyal to the Stark name. Soon enough, she found herself seeking out solitude, preferring to be alone than to dredge up the performance necessary to keep herself safe from the snakes and vipers of the capital. Margaery was the only exception – she had been a welcome respite from her plague of isolation. But, Sansa remembered with a familiar pang of pain, she was now gone as well. 

In truth, the presence of her siblings at Winterfell had brought a sense of home to the place that she hadn’t felt in—well, longer than she could remember anyway. With their absence, as well as Brienne’s and Margaery’s and any friendly face she had ever known, she had now returned to that now familiar state of solitude.

As she pondered over her loved ones, lost to death and Lannisters and Targaryens and duty, she knew her mind was determinedly avoiding one particular face, one particular name. Perhaps because she was plagued by her last sighting of him: pale, unconscious, clinging to life, and—most painful of all—moving away from her.

Sansa sighed again, and raised a hand to cover her eyes, a futile attempt to block out the image in her mind. But it would not go and so she squeezed her eyes shut tighter, but to no avail. At last, she decided that if her mind would not leave the past, that she would push it further back, back to something less painful, back to a time she recalled looking into those sea-colored eyes.

He’d come to Winterfell and pledged himself to protecting it. She remembered coming into the Great Hall with the Dragon Queen and he’d turned to face her. She almost didn’t recognize him, save for those eyes—they’d looked so green that day. The last time she’d seen him, he could barely meet her gaze. Now he looked at her and she felt he could see everything inside of her. He had escaped the prison of Reek and become himself again. 

But it was not the proud and haughty boy she had grown up with in these same halls. The boy who had egged on Robb and Arya’s ceaseless teasing of her, who called her a silly girl, and pulled her hair, and made angry tears well up in her eyes.

No, the man who stood before her was humbled, earnest, and possessed more strength than anyone realized.

_If you’ll have me._

“Theon.” She whispered his name to the empty air of her chambers, like a quiet prayer.

Before she knew it, her feet were carrying her across the floor, to him, into his arms. She embraced him and he returned the gesture, holding her close. In the back of her mind, she knew such a display in front of the Northern Lords—in front of the Dragon Queen—was inappropriate at best and dangerous at worst. But, she couldn’t care. Because in that moment, she felt a wholeness, a completion of self that she hadn’t known in so many years. Fate had woven their lives together in the cruelest of ways and yet, he had chosen to come here, to come to _her_. 

Tears were threatening at the edge of her lashes, and they served as a reminder to find her composure. Which she did, putting him back at arm’s length, and feeling cold at the absence of him.

Their strategy meeting was that afternoon. They sought a way to do what had yet been impossible: defeat the Night King and his army. Thus far, all their attempts had simply been an exercise in providing more cold and lifeless troops for the Army of the Undead. Jon had met Theon with a clenched jaw, but he grasped his arm and welcomed him nonetheless. She had been prepared to fight Jon for Theon’s place at the table, for him to be allowed to try and make atonement for his past sins, but there hadn’t been a need. Perhaps he was simply grateful for the extra men in the form of the handful of Ironborn fighters that Theon had brought with him. They would need every last person in the battle to come.

She remembered Theon offering to protect Bran, to be at the heart of the storm. She’d opened her mouth to protest but, with one look at his set brow and serious eyes, had promptly closed it. This is what he had come here to do. She focused her eyes on the map of Winterfell spread out on the table, trying to swallow the emotions that were gathering in her throat.

And then it was night, _the_ night, the night of their attack and a night that she did not know if she would see the morning. She’d had so many nights like this in her life and yet, it never ceased to chill her.

Sansa had finished the preparations with which she was tasked, so she had decided the best thing to do now was to be seen. Bitterly, she remembered Joffrey wanting to watch the Battle of the Blackwater from the safety of the battlements, rather than riding out in the vanguard. He had always been so eager to send his subjects to their deaths and yet was too afraid to face the finality of it himself. She hated that she was now being asked to do the same, to hide in the crypts while her own people—her own _family_ —faced an unknown fate. Perhaps that was her real reason for striding out into the courtyard, the Lady of Winterfell, skirts and cloak sweeping around her, head held high. She needed to at least be better than him.

She carried herself towards their makeshift soup line. She had no intention of actually eating, but she had learned that leadership required a certain amount of performance. This was a concept that seemed wholly lost on Jon, and Sansa was unsure if that was for better or for worse. As she patiently waited her own turn, the breeze blew steadily around her, bringing with it a piercing cold the likes of which she’d never felt, even in the North. Even the darkness of the night seemed so black and oppressive that the torch light struggled to keep it at bay. 

The maid manning the stew passed Sansa her bowl with a polite nod and a _m’lady_. Sansa summoned a smile and nodded in return, taking the rough hewn wooden bowl from her hands. As their fingers brushed in the exchange, Sansa noticed the woman’s hands were trembling. 

With stew in hand, the Lady of Winterfell turned to find a place to sit. Tables and benches filled the small courtyard, and at them were mostly men—exchanging old and certainly exaggerated war stories—and a few small families, huddling together against the arctic air. Her eyes went down the courtyard, where she recognized first the armor and then the bawdy songs of the Ironborn soldiers, ringing out against the walls surrounding the yard.

And then, sitting quietly alone, she saw him.

She felt something pull in her chest and immediately made a path towards the table where Theon sat. His gaze seemed lost somewhere in the bowl on the table before him, so he did not seem to hear the approach of her footsteps, crunching the hard snow beneath them. She stood before him for a moment, waiting.

“Hello.” Her voice was just above a whisper. “Mind some company?”

He looked up. His eyes widened upon recognizing her and he hurriedly rose to his feet, nearly knocking over the bench beneath him. “Sansa—that is—my lady.” His words came out in breathy, white wisps. “Have a seat. Please.” And he gestured towards the empty bench opposite him. 

A smile came to her face as she set her meal on the table. She lifted the hem of her skirts and settled opposite of him. “Would’ve broken my heart if you’d said no,” she weakly joked. He grinned—a shadow of the grin she’d seen him wear so often in their youth—and looked down at his bowl again. “Could never say no to you, Lady Sansa,” came his jesting reply, but she felt there was a sincerity to his words which he couldn’t mask.

A silence settled between them and Sansa was the first to break it. “I’m sorry about Jon,” she offered, thinking back to the two men’s tense reunion earlier in the day. “You know how he can get.”

Theon shook his head, his soft curls hitting his cheeks. “No, your brother’s right to have no friendly feelings toward me. The things I’ve done—” He trailed off, his eyes a thousand leagues away. “I don’t deserve your kindness.”

Sansa regarded him for a moment. She wanted to argue the point, but it felt futile.

“I imagine your sister was quite happy to see you,” she said at last.

Theon gave a small laugh, rubbing the stubble of his chin with his gloved hand. “Not quite.” Sansa could feel there was a tale to be had there, but Theon did not offer it. “Regardless, I think she was sad to see me sail for the North.”

Sansa nodded. “I’m glad you came back to Winterfell.” She paused, searching for her words. “It’s good to see you again, Theon.” They weren’t quite right, but she hoped her tone conveyed the truth of it.

He gave her a smile. “It’s good to see you, too, Lady Sansa.” And she smiled in return.

An comfortable quiet blanketed the space between them and Sansa realized this was the most at ease she had felt in a long time. For a moment she moved to speak again, but stopped herself. After the chaos of the day—the chaos of the past several weeks, really—she realized that she preferred _this_ , this simply sitting in quiet companionship.

Her nerves had previously overridden any desire to eat, but with those calmed, she suddenly felt inspired to pick up her spoon and take a sip of her soup. As she swallowed, she raised her eyes to meet Theon’s and in meeting his gaze she felt a warmth grow in her chest, shielding her from the harsh cold of the night.

And then in the distance, a horn blew out one, sustained note, silencing all other noises. For a moment, the air was cold and quiet. It seemed even as though Sansa’s heart stopped beating.

It was time.

Everyone around her began moving in earnest, shaking hands, saying goodbyes, preparing to take their positions for the battle to come. Theon stood and Sansa felt a feeling of supreme dread spread through her body. She stood as well, knowing what came next but desperately wishing it wasn’t so.

Suddenly, she was walking around the table, grabbing him by the crook of his elbow, and leading him away. She headed towards an old, covered walkway which led down to one area of the pantry stores. And when she felt they were far away enough from prying eyes, she stopped and turned to him. It was dim in the damp hallway and he was backlit by the torchlight outside that just barely reached them. Even so, she could still make out his features: his high cheekbones, the gentle slope of his jaw.

She hadn’t thought about what she wanted to do, what she wanted to say to him; she was only acting moment by moment, letting her heart take the lead. She realized she was breathing hard, her breath fogging up the air between them. She knew that time had become precious and, bit by bit, their moments were slipping away. Despite her desperation to say something—anything—her mind fell completely blank.

Finally, she threw her arms around Theon. The move clearly startled him, as for a moment, he was motionless, before finally bringing one hand up to her shoulder blade while his other gently cradled the back of her head. Her fingers tightened on the fabric of his overcoat, as she buried her face in the gentle curve of his neck, his soft curls brushing against her cheeks. Maybe, if she held on tight enough, time might stop, just for a bit.

Sansa could feel the seconds ticking away, could feel time marching unfailingly forward towards the moment when she would have to say goodbye, perhaps for the last time. Refusing to waste these precious minutes, Sansa willed her mind to be present. She wanted to capture everything about this moment and tuck it away, like an irreplacable keepsake. She felt his stubble on her cheek and even through the din of commotion outside, she could hear his steady breathing. She inhaled deeply. He smelled of the sea.

He pulled her in closer and she wondered if he could hear the heavy drum of her heartbeat.

_Don’t go._ The words repeated themselves in her mind over and over, though she knew there was no point in vocalizing them.

How long they stayed together, Sansa didn’t know. But then came the moment when she knew the inevitable could no longer be avoided. She raised her head, her cheek brushing against his, bringing up her eyes to meet his. Their faces were so close, she could feel his breath light on her lips. It would take nothing to close the distance between them. Suddenly her mouth felt unbearably dry.

He searched her eyes, perhaps looking for an invitation. How desperately she wanted to give it to him, but her mind wouldn’t let her. A fear grew in her stomach—by now, it was a familiar feeling. The same fear that swelled inside of her when Ramsay took a step towards her, when Littlefinger reached out to stroke her hair, when strange men stood too close to her. She tried to extinguish it, but it was too deeply entrenched within her, entwined in the fabric of her very being.

The walls she had spent years building were insurmountable—she’d built them to keep herself safe, to keep others out, but in this moment she felt trapped by them. She dropped her eyes and took a step backwards, out of his arms. She felt like a coward. Theon lowered his gaze as well; he hunched his shoulders, suddenly awkward and unsure. She wanted to explain, to tell him he wasn’t at fault, but she felt the knot rising in her throat again.

“Fight bravely tonight,” was all Sansa could manage.

“I will, Lady Sansa,” he promised.

Squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, Sansa strode out past him and into the cold night. She pushed her lips into a hard line to keep them from trembling and headed towards the crypt, shoving down the feeling of bitter regret that stung her heart.

* * *

There had been many terrible nights in the life of Sansa Stark, nights that she wished she could erase all memory of. The long night spent in the crypt was perhaps one of the worst of them. Sometimes, when she laid awake at night, she could still hear that horrid scraping sound. Bone clawing at stone as it tried to free itself. The screams. The wet sound of flesh being torn from bones. It made her shudder.

A crypt seemed a fitting place to die and she had prepared herself for that outcome, steeled herself with it, wore it as a piece of armor. As she clutched her crude weapon of dragonglass to her chest, she thought of her parents, of Robb and Rickon, of Margaery, and prayed to them for the strength to face death without fear.

But in a moment, it was over.

Around her, previously animated corpses fell in pieces. Bones shattered. And then there was silence. Those with her stood perfectly still, not even daring to breathe, to hope that it was over.

Jon’s words came to her, that if the Night King fell, his whole army would fall and victory would be complete. With that knowledge, she ran. She thought she heard Tyrion call after her, but he sounded so faraway as her mind fixed on a singular goal.

Sansa scampered up the stairs out of the crypt, eager to leave its horrors behind, skirts bunched in her hands as she struggled not to trip over herself in her haste. As soon as she escaped the heavy, musty air of the crypt, she pointed herself towards the Godswood and ran as fast as she could. Her path was hampered by debris, corpses, the injured. Bran, her most vulnerable sibling, was her priority. She needed to _know_. She would tend to her people later.

When she reached the clearing in the Godswood, she took in the sight. Fallen warriors littered the ground. Arrows stuck out of the wet earth. The snow was smeared with blood. 

Sansa struggled to catch her breath as her head and heart raced. And then, across the clearing, Sansa saw the small form of her sister. She called out her name and ran to her. Arya turned to look at her as she approached. Sansa pulled her younger sister into her arms, holding her tightly, resting her cheek to the top of her head. Capable Arya had been the one she’d feared for least, but nonetheless, relief surged through her.

As her mind spun, she remembered what had brought her here in the first place. She looked up and saw Bran, calmly seated beneath the heart tree, watching his sisters’ reunion from a distance both physical and emotional.

“Bran!” she cried out, running to him. She bent down and took his face in her gloved hands, anxiously searching him for any sign of injury. “Are you alright?”

“I’m alright, Sansa,” came his flat affect. “But you ought to see to Theon.” He extended his finger down towards the entrance to the Godswood, singling out a single form amongst the fallen Ironborn.

_Theon_.

Sansa’s stomach lurched as she scrambled back towards where she came. In the dim light she squinted, trying to recognize his form, searched faces for his features. It was his hair she recognized first. He laid prone in the snow, face down, a bloody spear cast beside him. Sansa rushed to the spot, dropping to her knees in the dirty snow beside him. He was unnaturally still and Sansa stretched out an uneasy hand, afraid to touch him, afraid to know the truth.

When she finally laid her hand upon him, his form was so cold and she knew at once what it meant. Grasping him by the shoulder, she rolled him off his chest and towards her. Through the caked blood and dirt on his face, she could see just how blue his lips were. She looked for the wound and saw it in his lower abdomen, blood staining his jerkin just below his chest armor.

The realization of it felt as though someone had driven an icy knife up under her ribs. Cradling his shoulders and head in her lap, she wanted to scream but her voice was strangled in her throat. She shut her eyes tightly, tears streaming down her cold, stinging cheeks.

Her mind was awash with all the things she wished she had spoken to him earlier in the evening. She’d known how possible this outcome was and yet, she’d hesitated. She’d held back and she hated herself for it. And now their time was at an end.

A sob finally broke free of her throat. She grieved, bitter that this feeling of supreme loss had become a familiar one. She bowed down, touching her forehead to Theon’s, her tears falling on his cool cheek.

And then—no—she didn’t dare hope. She _couldn’t_.

Sansa held her breath, desperately trying to hear over the sound of her heartbeat thudding in her ears. There it was again—the soft sound of Theon taking a short, shallow breath. She was too afraid to believe it, afraid to have her heart shattered again. Frantically, she tore off a glove and held her bare hand to Theon’s lips. After a moment, she felt his light breath brush against her knuckles.

Sansa looked up, darting her eyes around the Godswood. By the entrance to the clearing, she recognized the face of one of the stewards. “Find a Maester! And quickly!” she shouted at him. In his haste to obey the command of his lady, the young steward spun around and in doing so tripped over his own feet. His speed didn’t matter, however, as Arya had already taken off, her quick feet cutting a light path through the snow, disappearing out of sight.

“Theon, it’s alright,” Sansa whispered to him through her tears. “It’s alright, I’m here. I’m here.” Sansa knew that time was the enemy to overcome and each minute of waiting stretched into an agonizing eternity. Around her, the wind blew through the weirwood tree, rustling its blood red leaves. She shivered and pulled Theon closer to her.

Finally, Arya reappeared, practically dragging Maester Horliff behind her. The Maester hurried behind the small girl, struggling to match her pace, his heavy chain clinking. When he reached the spot where Sansa held the injured Ironborn, he dropped to his knees as well, surveying the damage.

“He’s alive, but barely,” came his grim assessment. “He needs to be brought inside, now.” The older man looked up at the few surviving Ironborn, who had gathered around their fallen leader. “Alright men, let’s get him up.” Dutifully, the Ironborn gathered around their injured prince, lifting him from the snow that had almost become his grave.

Sansa stood, grabbing the Maester by his arm. “Take him to my chambers,” she commanded, trying to keep her voice even. She leveled her Tully blue eyes at him, hoping she inspired an image of her mother, fierce and protective, and not of a girl with tear-stained cheeks. “Do whatever you must for him. Treat him as you would a son of House Stark.” He nodded and Sansa released him, allowing him to lead the procession of Ironborn.

She watched them go, her heart heavy with a thousand emotions. She had done as much as she could for Theon and now his fate was between him, Maester Horliff, and the gods. Now, there was work to be done.

With all the strength she could muster, she turned away from the Ironborn procession to face Arya. “What exactly happened here?” A smile grew across Arya’s dirty, blood-splattered face.

* * *

  
  


There was work to be done and Sansa was grateful for it. Something to throw her energy into, to occupy her mind and her hands. Weapons needed to be inspected, stock needed to be taken, the dead needed to be collected. Building the funeral pyres was an obvious priority, not only to honor those who had fallen in defending the realm but also because, with so many slain, the stench would soon be unbearable and the risk of disease too great.

Her next priority was tending to the injured. Make-shift infirmaries were erected wherever there was room, with maesters and septas scurrying about, assessing injuries, treating wounds, setting bones. Sansa fluttered from one pressing task to the next, overseeing what she could and delegating what she couldn’t. As soon as she had answered one question, another steward would appear, begging for her attention to this matter or that, and she would hurry off to the next task required of her.

The sky was a hazy pink when Sansa finally found a break from the deluge of needs and requests. There would be more duties requiring her attention, but those would be dealt with in the morning. For now, she needed to see to Theon. She hadn’t received any urgent messages regarding him and so she hoped that in this case, no news was good news.

Climbing the cold, dimly lit stairs to her chambers, Sansa could feel an anxiety steadily building in her. As she put her hand on the handle to her door, she took a deep breath, steeling herself for whatever may lay in store for her.

Pushing the door open, she saw him, laid in her bed, ostensibly asleep. At his side was Septa Wylla, pulling a fur back up to cover his bare chest. Placed on the bed beside her was a wooden bowl, filled with used and bloodied bandages, as well as a large medicinal bottle.

At Sansa’s entrance, the septa looked up from her patient. “Ah, m’lady,” she said, giving a short nod.

“How is he?” Sansa swept into the room, all business, trying to belie her overwhelming trepidation. She joined the old woman at Theon’s bedside.

“Well,” the septa began, clasping her thin, rough hands together. “He’s made it through the day, but we’re not clear of the woods yet. Still waiting on him to come to.” She nodded towards the bandages. “Cleaned up the wound just now—hoping it doesn’t become foul.” She paused. “The maester said you found him in the snow?” 

Sansa nodded.

“That might’ve been what spared him,” she offered pensively, tossing another look at her patient. “What with the ground being so cold, might’ve slowed the bleeding. That and the wound wasn’t clean through him.” The old woman turned her gaze again to Theon, her eyebrows knitting together. “Been through the seven hells, this one has,” she said softly, and Sansa knew she was staring at the scars on his shoulder, just barely visible under the furs.

For a moment, the only sound in Sansa’s bedchambers was the crackling of the fire in the hearth, until Sansa could hear heavy footsteps in the hall, followed by Jon appearing in her doorway, his black furs filling the frame.

“Jon,” Sansa beckoned, glad to see her brother but ill at ease. They’d had so many disagreements as of late, she wasn’t looking forward to another. He stepped into the room and Septa Wylla quickly gathered her things and dismissed herself, nodding at them as she shut the door behind her.

“How is he?” asked Jon, casting a wary glance at the Ironborn. Sansa could see her brother wrestling with the image of the man who had betrayed Robb and taken their home now convalescing in what had been their parents’ bed.

“He’s alright. For now,” she answered plainly. She wanted to be cautious with her words. Jon stepped around her, carefully lifting the bedcovers to see Theon’s injury for himself.

“Sansa, this kind of wound—” he began, but she cut him off.

“I know.” Her voice was hard and she could feel her eyes wetting over.

“I’m sorry,” he immediately corrected. “I didn’t know—I didn’t realize—”

“He saved my life and now he’s saved Bran’s as well,” Sansa cut in again, desperately trying to avoid this line of questioning. “I’m only doing my duty—you of all people should understand that.” She knew she was being exceptionally short with him and felt guilty for it, but her brother wanted answers she couldn’t provide, even to herself.

Jon sighed, gently taking his sister by the shoulders. “And how are you?”

“I’m fine,” she said, taking in a long breath, not wanting to look into his dark eyes. “I need to write to Yara Greyjoy. She ought to know.”

Jon pushed his mouth into a line, knowing he was being dismissed. “Please try and get some rest, Sansa,” he said, lifting up his head to kiss his sister’s cheek. He gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze before walking past her and quietly exiting her chambers.

For better or for worse, she was now alone with Theon.

Shrugging out of her heavy cloak, she deposited it on one of the chairs by the fire, before dragging the other one over to the bedside. Taking a seat, she quietly examined the man laying before her. With the grit wiped clean from his face, she could see now how pale he was, how fragile. The furs covering him gently rose and fell as he took his small breaths. 

“Theon?” she called, softly, hesitantly. He didn’t stir.

Once again, silence filled the room, save for the crackle of the fire.

Standing, she crossed the room to her desk. It hadn’t been a lie to Jon, she did need to write to Theon’s sister. She sat with the wet quill in her hand, parchment before her, but made no move to write. She had no idea what sort of feelings Yara harbored towards her, the history between their two houses being so fraught. More pressingly though, the last she knew of Yara was that she was fighting to retake the Iron Islands from their uncle. Would the message even reach her?

Sansa took a deep, steadying breath and set the quill to paper, quickly scratching out her message to the elder Greyjoy. Sealing it with her sigil, she rolled up the parchment before flagging down a steward in the hallway and instructing him to take her note to the rookery.

Closing the door, Sansa returned to her seat by Theon. Moments passed and steadily, the thoughts she had spent the day avoiding began to creep into her mind.

It had been months since they had parted ways in those snowy woods. She remembered the feeling of her heart dropping as she realized he wouldn’t be going on to Castle Black with her and Brienne. And as he rode away on horseback, she felt something shift inside of her. She didn’t fully realize it then, but that day, something was forged between them and even though they were apart, he always seemed to linger at the edge of her thoughts.

Sansa shut her eyes tightly. This is where she always came to an impasse with herself, in trying to parse out her relationship to Theon Greyjoy. By all accounts, she should hate him: he’d stolen Winterfell, he’d betrayed Robb, he’d betrayed her. And yet, he had now twice risked his life to protect the Stark family. If life was a ledger, it was impossible for her to tell if Theon had made right on the wrong of his past. 

But it was more than that, more than a simple weighing of good versus evil. She felt an undeniable connection to this man with whom she’d been through hell, but what the nature of that connection was, she couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge.

Sansa opened her eyes. Not knowing what else to do, but knowing she had to do something, she turned to one of her oldest comforts. Bending down, she retrieved her embroidery basket from where it sat by the bed. She fit a fresh piece of silk between the circles of her hoop, threaded her needle, and began stitching.

In her memory, the next few weeks passed in a hazy, disordered blur.

Her days were spent overseeing repairs, fielding requests for supplies, thanking noble houses for their loyalty, grieving with them for their losses. Her nights were spent sitting dutifully by Theon’s side, stitching away at her cloth, praying that she would be the first face he saw when he roused. If he ever roused. After Bran’s fall, she remembered her mother quietly talking to the small boy, even though he had yet to come to.

_So he knows we’re here, waiting for him._

Sansa had attempted this, but quickly found she didn’t know what to say. So, she sang to him. Every song she’d ever learned during her childhood in the North, and when she ran out of those, she sang the songs she’d learned in King’s Landing.

Any sleep she got was purely accidental. She feared that if her watch lapsed for even a moment, he might slip away from the world of the living. On more than one occasion, when Septa Wylla had come to relieve her from her post in the morning, she had found Sansa bent over in her chair, head resting on her arms, which were folded upon the bed, fast asleep. The septa never wanted to disturb this quiet tableau, but the creak of the door was always enough to awaken Sansa, and she would quickly straighten, snatching up her embroidery which had tumbled to the floor.

At some point in the stretch of her watch, she had met with Jon and the Dragon Queen. With the Night King defeated, they wanted to turn their attention to the threat in the South, Cersei Lannister. They needed to march on King’s Landing, they said, and quickly. Sansa had pledged men to the Targaryen, but the North was weary. She was weary. And Cersei seemed like such a distant point on the horizon, so far beyond all the things that required her attention. But still, she had given her word and if she had learned nothing else from Robb, it was that promises should be honored.

She gave Daenerys what she could, in terms of men. Jon and the Targaryen had exchanged a grim look, but accepted nonetheless. Numbers were numbers.

Sansa couldn’t remember how long it took to receive the reply from Yara Greyjoy, but she did recall her brief message: _I’ve reclaimed the Iron Islands. Keep my brother well for me, I am coming for him._ In the fog of her memory, she remembered falling asleep in the early morning and suddenly being startled awake by a loud knock on her door, followed by a steward alerting her that riders with the Greyjoy banner had been spotted to the south. Yara would be here soon.

Waiting in the grey-lit courtyard of Winterfell to receive the Ironborn Queen, Sansa struggled to keep her clasped hands relaxed, but it was no use. Around her a cold wind blew, whirling under her cloak and pulling a rogue strand of red hair across her face. She didn’t know what to expect from Yara and a lack of information always made Sansa uneasy. Perhaps her anxiety was for the best—it may have been the only thing keeping her upright. 

Finally, a guard up on the battlements called out the riders approaching. The heavy gate protecting Winterfell creaked open and through it rode an Ironborn bearing the Greyjoy banner, followed shortly by Yara Greyjoy and a handful of her guard. Barely waiting for her horse to come to a stop, she dismounted in one easy movement, absently passing her reins to a groom whom had hurried forward.

Yara immediately locked eyes with Sansa and began striding towards her, causing Sansa to instinctively straighten her back and pull down her shoulders. Sansa knew the stress and lack of sleep had not been kind to her and she briefly regretted how disheveled she probably looked for her first meeting with the Greyjoy.

As she approached, Sansa could see how battle-weary Yara was as well, however it somehow suited her. The Ironborn Queen looked as if she had walked straight off the battlefield and into the Winterfell courtyard—which, in truth, was more or less what she had done. Her hair was carelessly pulled back, a streak of dirt smudged her forehead, and on her jerkin—was that dried blood?

“Your Grace,” Sansa greeted Yara, trying to summon a courteous smile, but knowing she was failing.

“My lady,” responded Yara, but held out her hand towards the Lady of Winterfell. For a moment, Sansa stared blankly at it, unsure of the gesture, before finally recovering and grasping Yara’s forearm. 

“It’s an honor to receive you at Winterfell, Your Grace. Your men were instrumental in our battle against the Undead Army. They fought hard and honorably.”

Yara nodded in acknowledgement, seeming to appreciate Sansa’s diplomatic words. “My brother, my lady,” she said, opting to end the pleasantries.

“Of course,” Sansa said, immediately turning. “Please, follow me.”

Sansa led Yara, accompanied by two of her guard, into the castle, through the twists and turns of the hallways and stairs, before finally arriving at her chambers, where Theon was still convalescing. Upon entering, Sansa stepped off to the side, allowing Yara to go to her brother’s bedside. Concern etched itself across Yara’s hard features as she inspected Theon’s sleeping form. “How has he been?” she asked at last.

“He’s gotten more color to his face and the maester says his wound hasn’t been infected.” She paused. “But he’s still not come to since he—since he was injured.”

Yara nodded, seeming to turn things over in her mind. 

“I need to take him back to Pyke,” she said finally. “He should be at Pyke.” She leveled her gaze at Sansa. There was an implication to her words that neither woman wanted to spell out.

“I understand,” Sansa said, nodding. “I’ll have our maester oversee the necessary preparations and in the morning—”

“No.” Yara cut in quietly. “I apologize, my lady, but we need to leave today. Now.” Yara turned to face Sansa fully. She was clearly a woman hardened by battle, hardened by a life spent at Pyke and on the seas, but whenever she spoke to Sansa, there was never the harshness she expected. In fact, quite the opposite.

“I’m sure you understand,” Yara began, “my grasp on the Iron Islands is tenuous at best and I’ve risked it to come and claim my brother.” She took a step towards Sansa. “I’m grateful for what you’ve done for him and it’s a kindness from House Stark that I won’t forget.”

Sansa nodded again. “Whatever you need is at your disposal.”

It was quiet between the two of them for a moment, before Yara’s eyes found Sansa’s embroidery basket sitting on the floor, noticing its contents. Her eyes came back up to meet the Stark’s, eyebrows lightly raised. “Is that for him?” came Yara’s surprisingly gentle tone again.

Sansa sucked in a breath. “Yes.” Immediately, she moved towards the basket, retrieving the work she had created during her nightly vigil, trying desperately to ignore the wave of embarrassment swelling up inside of her. She freed the embellished fabric from its hoop and gently placed it in Yara’s outstretched hand. The Greyjoy contemplated it for a moment before carefully tucking it away in her overcoat. When she met Sansa’s eyes again, Sansa knew Yara was seeing her with a better clarity. It made her shift uncomfortably.

Within hours of her arrival, Yara Greyjoy was now departing Winterfell, with her guard, her brother, and the ashes of her fallen Ironborn in tow. Theon had been carefully laid in a small cart for his journey to Seagard, packed in furs and drawn by one of the Greyjoy horses. Maester Wolkan had strongly objected to him making the voyage back to Pyke, but a look from Sansa had ended his disagreement.

Yara’s wishes for her brother were clear: she did not want him dying in the foreign landscape of the North. It only seemed right to Sansa to honor those wishes as best she could.

But, as Sansa stood in the courtyard of Winterfell watching the departure of the Greyjoy party, she felt her heart swim with regret. She could just barely see Theon’s face, propped up in his makeshift transport, getting smaller and smaller as the Ironborn rode away. Pale, unconscious, clinging to life. Once again, the wind blew around her. She had no idea if she would ever see him again, and so she stood, silent and still, watching until he was out of sight.

* * *

And it had indeed been the last time she’d seen him. The last time, that is, until today. Today, Theon Greyjoy was returning to Winterfell.

“Your Grace?”

The voice of her steward was like a splash of freezing water to the face, the shock of it throwing Sansa out of her deep reverie with a jolt. 

“Apologies, Your Grace—I’m—I’m so sorry. I tried to knock—twice, actually—”

“It’s fine.” Sansa tugged at the bottom of her leather bodice, trying to regain some semblance of composure, hoping her heart would stop racing. “Did you have a message?”

“Yes—yes,” began the steward, trying to recover his own composure. “Riders—Greyjoy riders—they were seen, just over th—” 

“Good,” interrupted the Queen of the North. “I’ll come to the courtyard to receive them shortly. And notify Lyselle, so she can alert the footmen.” The steward needed no further dismissal, quickly bowing and closing the door behind him.

Alone again, Sansa took a deep steadying breath. A thousand emotions whirled inside of her, but she would tightly seal them behind her lady-like visage. She would receive her Ironborn allies and be the pinnacle of grace and statesmanship. A lifetime of wearing a perfectly composed mask had become second nature to her, after all. Surely playing this role would be like any of the other myriad performances she had given in her life. And all the while, she would hope and pray that, through the hairline cracks and fissures, no one would see how desperately happy she was to see Theon Greyjoy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the very kind comments on the first chapter! I really hope you all continue to enjoy. <3 <3 <3 I also forgot to mention that I made a Spotify playlist for this fic, if you need some mood-appropriate music: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1XDTV7kgVGyZXmHSnW4PEy <3 Again, please enjoy!

The air in the Winterfell courtyard was warmer than it had been in years. The sun had found some success in burning through the thick layer of clouds that had all but become as much a part of the castle as the stones of its very foundation. The defeat of the Night King had come hand in hand with the defeat of winter itself and so the world found itself turning back to summer. With the clouds lifted, everything seemed brighter—literally, of course, but also, for the first time in a long while, there was a faint glow of optimism not just for Sansa Stark, but for the entire realm of Westeros.

This last winter had been dark and grim, bringing with it such a period of turmoil and dissolution: nothing felt permanent, not even the Wall, whose icy heights had stood for thousands of years and yet even it had not escaped this upheaval intact. But to many, this change was a turn for the better. The old systems seemed only to benefit the rich, powerful men who had implemented them in the first place and their continued existence only further consolidated their total and absolute dominion. For the less fortunate, this time of turbulence had been unfailingly brutal and yet necessary to tear down these old structures and let others rise to take their place.

Daenerys Targaryen had come to Westeros to break the wheel and she had succeeded. What worried Sansa, though, was what Daenerys had built in its place.

Following the Battle of Winterfell, her brother and his Dragon Queen had marched south to de-throne Cersei Lannister and reclaim the realm. And de-throne Cersei they did. More than once, Sansa imagined what it would have been like to witness the Lannister queen, one of the many architects of Sansa’s suffering over the years, burn up in the deadly breath of a dragon. She wondered how prolonged the agony would be, if Cersei could feel her flesh being torn from her bones by the heat. It brought Sansa no joy, it brought her no real comfort, and it did not bring her mother, her brother, or her love back. It only brought a grim confirmation that that particular chapter of her life was now closed.

But Cersei had not been the only evil destroyed that day, as the Iron Throne met a similar fate.

Of all things, this had actually surprised Sansa—from the way Jon spoke, Daenerys had spent her life imagining herself on that throne, that grotesque seat of power. As she curiously imagined Cersei’s death, so too did Sansa wonder about the destruction of that throne, the metal growing white hot, the swords drooping into lifeless slag. If Cersei had been the architect of Sansa’s suffering, that ridiculous chair had certainly been a great source of pain for the people of Westeros. So many had died so that one person or another could sit upon it—and for what? The world was better with it gone, melted and forged into something useful.

Still, it had been the Targaryen’s lifelong pursuit and yet she had set it aside in the interests of the people. If nothing else, it gave Sansa a glimmer of hope that this otherworldly woman, with her white hair and dragons of old, might truly bring a new era of peace and stability to the realm.

Then again, Sansa found herself wondering exactly how different this “new” world order Daenerys had created truly was. Yes, she had destroyed the Iron Throne and had vested power back to the kingdoms of Westeros, but she had also named herself High Counselor and mandated that rulers from these kingdoms would sit on her new council. There was still a consolidation of power in King’s Landing and it made Sansa uneasy.

So, when Daenerys Targaryen unveiled this new vision for Westeros at her great summit in the old Dragon Pits, Sansa knew what she had to do. The North had lost too much. She had lost too much.

_ The North will remain an independent kingdom, as it has for centuries before. _

She remembered Jon and the Targaryen sharing a look, so similar to the one they’d exchanged when they’d asked for men before the siege on King’s Landing. Sansa could see the jaw set itself in Daenerys’ face before nodding and recognizing their independence. On her left, Sansa felt her sister nudge her in the ribs. She didn’t need to look to know that the small woman was smiling.

After receiving pledges of fealty from the rest of the realm, Daenerys had dismissed them. With the meeting concluded, Sansa watched nervously as Yara Greyjoy strode towards her from across the pit. There was an easy confidence to Yara’s gait that gave the impression that she was used to walking up to people and getting exactly what she wanted. It made Sansa uneasy.

“My lady,” Yara greeted her, throwing out her hand again. This time, Sansa did not hesitate and grasped her forearm tightly, smiling.

“Your Grace.”

Yara returned the smile, a sort of lopsided grin that was so similar to Theon’s, but Sansa also found herself reminded of Margaery and her own fox-like smirk. Sansa was lucky enough to see it often during their time together—Margaery wore it when she was feeling particularly devious, like when she was brainstorming all the different ways she would rid herself of Cersei as soon as she and Joffrey were wed.

Sansa blinked away the memory and realized she had been holding Yara’s arm a fraction too long and, worse yet, that she had been absently staring at the other woman’s mouth. Heat came to her cheeks and in her rush to self-correct, she let go of Yara too quickly.

“Apologies, Your Grace,” Sansa blurted, trying to save her fumble. “You just—you happened to remind me of someone, just now.”

The embarrassment belonged only to Sansa as Yara seemed to be quite amused. “Someone you were fond of, I hope?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yes,” Sansa answered plainly, not quite able to meet Yara’s eyes. “Quite.”

She could feel that look from Yara again, the same look she’d given her when she’d discovered Sansa’s embroidery, the look that knew there was something just below the surface of Sansa’s façade, something she was struggling to keep hidden.

“Well,” Yara continued, deciding not to prolong Sansa’s suffering, “I only wanted to thank you again for your care with my brother.”

“How is he?” Sansa asked, struggling to keep her tone neutral as her chest tightened. She’d had no news of Theon since the Greyjoy company had left Winterfell and she’d prayed that meant, at the very least, that he was still alive.

“He grows stronger everyday. He awoke on the voyage back to Pyke—naturally, he was quite confused as to his surroundings.” Yara glanced down at her dust-covered boots, that small smirk crossing her face again. “I, of course, told him of his gallant act of courage against the Night King and how he had been nursed back to health by the Lady of Winterfell herself.”

Sansa prayed that the flush on her face would be blamed on the southron heat and her poor decision to attend the summit in a black leather bodice. 

“He saved my life once, your brother. I owe him a debt. That’s all.”

“So odd,” Yara remarked, her simper practically glowing, her eyes narrowed with mock confusion. “That’s not quite the way he tells it.”

“I imagine the three of us should gather together and get to the truth of this tale,” Sansa returned, finally finding her footing with the Ironborn. 

At this, Yara’s smile turned genuine and she clapped a friendly hand on her shoulder. “I’d like that very much.” Sansa felt her heart warm. 

“Please, give my best to your brother. I’m so grateful to him, for his—his bravery.” There was so much Sansa wanted to say, so much that couldn’t be properly conveyed in simple pleasantries. But, as she looked into the depth of Yara’s dark eyes, there was a warm understanding there and Sansa knew that Yara would be able to deliver her message properly.

“Of course. It was lovely to see you again, my lady,” answered Yara. Sansa put out her hand, prepared for the traditional Ironborn gesture. Instead, Yara took Sansa’s fingers in her own, curling them and placing a light kiss on her knuckles, tickling her skin with her breath. “Until we meet again,” and with that, Yara strode off just as confidently as she had come, leaving Sansa to collect herself.

It had been a difficult trip to King’s Landing, with the melting snow turning the Kingsroad into a muddy, tortuous stretch, but the journey back to Winterfell had been much harder. 

Sansa had rightly assumed that Jon would take a new position in King’s Landing, serving his Dragon Queen, so she had been prepared to bid him farewell. It had not been an easy goodbye, but at least it was expected. Arya and Bran, on the other hand—she had thought her two remaining younger siblings would return with her to the North, at least for the moment, but when she had turned to them after embracing Jon and saw the looks on their faces, she realized she had been wrong.

Arya, ever the adventurous spirit, had made plans to sail west, to discover what lay beyond the borders of the map. Bran, with his newfound sight, had been invited to join Daenerys’ new advisory council. His gifts belonged to the realm, he believed, and so he should stay in a place where he could best serve that purpose. Sansa had nodded, understanding. But understanding did little to help her hold back her tears as she embraced the remainder of her family and bid them to stay safe and write when they could.

Harder still, perhaps, had been her parting with Brienne. Much like Bran, she had been invited to serve the realm at Daenerys’ behest and sit on her newly formed council. As she had strode toward Sansa to take her leave of the Stark’s service, she had never looked taller, prouder, more radiant. Sansa had hoped to make Brienne the Captain of her Queensguard and keep her as an ever important and trusted advisor, but it seemed selfish to steal her back to the North to serve Sansa, when she could stay in the south and serve the realm at large. How could Sansa deny her such an honor?

And yet, as Brienne knelt in front of her, head bowed, Sansa felt such a hollow pang in her chest, like a great dark chasm opening beneath her heart. It had been Brienne that had secured her freedom from Ramsey—as she and Podrick had galloped into the snowy clearing that day, cutting down Bolton men, it had been the first time she’d known safety in a long time. She trusted Brienne with her life and these days, trust was something Sansa found herself in short supply of.

Nevertheless, she thanked the anointed knight for her brave and unflinching service and reminded her she would always be welcome at her table. Brienne stood and, before Sansa could turn to go, she pulled her into a fond embrace. For a moment, Sansa was caught off guard, but she soon wrapped her arms around the other woman, pressing her warm cheek against the cool metal plate of her armor, wondering if Daenerys knew how lucky she was to have such a woman in her service.

And so, Sansa gathered her attendants and her guards and began her journey back to Winterfell.

But it was a very different Winterfell that Sansa returned to. It was not so long ago that the large, dark-stoned fortress had been practically teeming with smallfolk and bannermen, with Dothraki bloodriders and their wild stallions, with men and women and children: all the components of the army of the living. All the great houses that had answered the call had brought their own retinue, their own guards—every room in the Great Keep and the guesthouses had been filled to the brim. At one point, her steward had suggested they set up cots in the back of the Great Hall to accommodate all the additional guests the old stronghold was now hosting.

But with the defeat of the Night King as well as Jon and Daenerys’ march south, Winterfell saw a great exodus. As Sansa rode under the portcullis into the Winterfell courtyard, she couldn’t help but be struck by how the once lively and bustling yard was now empty. Sansa pushed the hollow feeling away as best she could. After all, this was home. This was the place she had been fighting to return to for years.

At the very least, there was little time to mourn her solitude. There was work to be done: the North needed to be rebuilt. Her  _ kingdom _ needed to be rebuilt.

Word of Sansa’s declaration of Northern independence had travelled fast and it seemed several villages along the western shores were perhaps less than pleased with another copper-haired Stark declaring themselves as ruler of a free and independent North. Fighting had begun to break out and Sansa worried that, if unchecked, she might soon have a full scale rebellion on her hands. Her instinct was to deploy a force to snuff out these sparks, but knew it risked igniting into a full-blown civil war.

Further compounding the situation were raids that had broken out in these same villages by a group of brigands and bandits calling themselves the Brothers of the Red Hand ( _ What a ludicrous name _ , Sansa had murmured to herself when she read the report.) Perhaps sensing that the new Northern Queen was losing control of this region, they had decided to seize the opportunity to loot and pillage with impunity.

Frustrated and unsure, Sansa furiously scribbled a note by candlelight to her elder brother, asking for advice. She had learned much from her studies of Littlefinger and Cersei, but Jon was of the North and he knew its people as well as anyone.

So it was with surprise when, while waiting for Jon’s reply, a young, fresh-faced guard had nervously brought her a scroll sealed not with a wolf but with a three-headed dragon. Hesitant but curious, Sansa slid her finger under the wax, lifted the seal, and unfurled the message.

She hadn’t been truly shocked that Jon had brought her quandary to the Targaryen—in fact, she almost welcomed the other woman’s advice, as someone who had struggled to liberate Slaver’s Bay and later maintain that power, perhaps she might have some insight that Sansa, fresh to her own throne, might lack.

Sansa’s eyes scanned over the flowing, gentle cursive, carefully reading Daenerys’ proposition. When she finished, Sansa set the parchment down, turning the idea over in her mind, before snatching it back up to read Daenerys’ words one more time.

_ …as Yara Greyjoy has heeded my command that the Iron Islands must break with their tradition of raiding and reaving and instead seek out a new economy of self-sufficiency. Therefore it is my thought that we may heal the wounds between your two families through an alliance built on a fair exchange of labor and knowledge… _

It seemed Daenerys’ vision was to have the Iron Fleet sail to Blazewater Bay and assist in peacekeeping efforts, as well as strengthen the Northern Queen’s presence so as not to have the west slip out of the fold. In return, the North would share its stores and pantries with the Iron Islands and assist them with creating their own farming economy.

_ …I have discussed this proposition with the Greyjoys and they are willing to set sail for Winterfell within a fortnight to discuss these terms. With your consent, of course… _

Sansa bit her lip. The letter was signed by Daenerys, but its contents at least partially came from the Targaryen’s advisor and Sansa’s former husband, Tyrion Lannister. And while she did not harbor the same level of hatred and distrust for Tyrion as she did for his now passed sister, a Lannister was still an ambitious Lannister. If Littlefinger were here, he would ask her,  _ what do they have to gain from your alliance with the Greyjoys?  _ She did not have an immediate or easy answer to that.

But more than anything in the letter, one set of words in particular rang through Sansa’s mind again and again:  _ …and they are willing to set sail for Winterfell within a fortnight… _ Sansa could guess who  _ they _ referred to and the very thought of it brought forth a nervous sweat beneath her velvet dress.

Sansa shut her eyes briefly before opening them again, trying to refocus her mind. Their stores were indeed in abundant supply, as they had been aggressively stockpiling in preparation for a long and difficult winter. The Battle of Winterfell had certainly taken a toll to be sure, but with the seasons now turning back to summer, the pantries would again be in surplus.

What the North was not in surplus of, however, was men. The Battle had hit great and lesser Houses with equal voracity – she barely had any men of her own to spare and she could hardly call the banners yet again to squash this western rebellion. She almost hated to admit it, but reinforcements of the Ironborn would be welcome.

_ …we may heal the wounds of your two families… _

It was true, Balon’s Rebellion and its subsequent fallout had opened an enormous rift between the Great Houses of Stark and Greyjoy. Surely the realm would benefit from a repair of that chasm? Or was it simply that the thought of one particular Greyjoy riding back into the Winterfell courtyard filled her with equal parts excitement and trepidation?

Inside her chest, Sansa’s heart beat a hard and steady rhythm and as she set her quill to parchment in order to pen her reply to King’s Landing, she prayed to the gods not only that this was the right choice but also that her hand might stop trembling.

* * *

And so, here she stood, flanked by attendants and grooms and advisors, waiting for a retinue of Ironborn riders to gallop beneath Winterfell’s portcullis. Here she stood, waiting to see a particular face, to look into his eyes, to feel that lightness in her chest which she only seemed to feel in his presence. 

“Are you alright, Your Grace?” Lyselle whispered anxiously at her side. Sansa was still not used to the change in address. 

“Yes, thank you, I am quite well,” Sansa lied, shifting uncomfortably in the velvet folds of her dress. She had agonized over whether to don her new leather armor—she wanted to invoke an image of power, but the collar had been cut a half inch too high, so she feared she would only invoke an image of someone choking.

“Just look a bit flushed is all, didn’t want you to have caught a fever,” Lyselle continued. For a brief moment, Sansa’s eyes widened in fear at being discovered, but she hid behind a quiet snort of laughter instead. “This damn dress,” she admitted under her breath. “Bloody thing doesn’t breathe at all.”

The two women shared a conspiratorial look before a guard on the battlements bellowed out to the yard, “ _ Riders on the gate! _ ” 

Sansa straightened, tucking away the nervous woman she felt on the inside and donning her more stately persona of Queen of the North. She gestured to the guards at the gate to lift the heavy grate and soon the yard was filled with the creak and groan of iron and wood. With the gate lifted, there was a moment of silence until all at once the courtyard echoed with the approaching thunder of galloping hooves. 

The seconds seemed to drag by until finally the large riding party came into view: solemn and grizzled riders with their steeds dark like ash and smoke, a few select carrying banners emblazoned with the Greyjoy kraken, which almost seemed to come alive as the fabric rippled in the wind.

The scene took Sansa back to her childhood, such a faraway time now, when she and her family had stood huddled in the cold, watching the royal procession of Lannister and Baratheon men. It had given Sansa a heady thrill then and now she felt the same anxious anticipation.

As the Ironborn party made its way under the heavy portcullis, they slowed their speed. Nervously, Sansa’s eyes darted to and fro, searching the faces of the crowd, waiting for the moment of recognition. Finally, she caught sight of Yara, sitting proudly atop an onyx-colored steed. Her attire had not much changed since Sansa had met her in the Dragon Pits: she wore the traditional Ironborn armor embossed with the sigil of her house and a long, heavily studded overcoat, which gently flapped behind her as her horse trotted forward. Atop her head was a simple but crude silver circlet, the sole symbol of her station as ruler of the Iron Islands.

And then, riding just behind his sister, came Theon. His uniform was similar to Yara’s, though it appeared his own overcoat boasted a design much simpler than hers. His hair was shorter than the last time Sansa had seen him, with the sides and back cropped but his signature sandy curls still falling gently across his forehead. When Sansa caught sight of him, an unbidden smile broke out across her face. And when his eyes found hers, he smiled softly and Sansa found herself wondering if he had been searching for her face as she had been searching for his.

The party halted inside the aged walls of the great fortress and the Greyjoy siblings each swung off their steeds so closely in unison that one might mistake them for twins. Two stable hands hurried forward to take their reins, bowing their heads in respect to Winterfell’s newfound guests. Yara crossed the yard to where Sansa stood, with Theon following closely behind her.

“Your Grace, it’s my honor to welcome you and your party to Winterfell,” Sansa greeted the Ironborn Queen warmly.

“The honor belongs to us,” Yara replied, smiling as she put out her hand. Sansa took hold of her offered forearm but was quickly startled as the other woman leveraged her grip to pull Sansa towards her into an embrace, using her other hand to clap the Stark heartily on the back. It seemed Yara enjoyed keeping her on her toes.

At last, they broke apart. “You remember my young brother, Theon,” continued Yara with mock courtesy, stepping back to gesture towards her sibling.

“Of course,” replied Sansa, laughter in her voice. She turned to face him fully. He was thinner than he had been the last time he’d come to Winterfell, but certainly stronger than he had been when he had left it. It heartened Sansa to see him standing tall, color in his cheeks, life in his eyes.

His eyes. Sansa had not known if she would ever look into them again, their watery, sea-glass depths. To have them looking back at her now filled her with such a warmth she hardly needed her cloak against the cool air.

“You look well.” Her voice was nearly a whisper. 

He dropped to a knee, crossing an arm over his chest, and bowing his head. “All thanks to you, Your Grace.” He turned his eyes back up to hers and Sansa felt a lump form in her throat.

“Rise, please,” begged Sansa, trying to break apart the emotion of the moment. He complied, bracing a hand against the ground as he lifted himself up from the dirt of the yard. “I’m sure you are tired from your long journey north,” she continued, fighting to keep the flush out of her cheeks. “Allow me to show you to your rooms; I’ll have your men and horses attended to.”

“Your Grace is too kind,” replied Yara, whose eyes had been darting back and forth between her brother and the Northern Queen. 

After gesturing to her household staff, Sansa turned and began leading the Greyjoy siblings towards the Keep. Traditionally, the Starks kept their guests in the appointed guest house, but with the Keep so empty these days, Sansa had convinced herself that her visitors would surely be more comfortable there than anywhere else.

As they walked through stone hallways, Sansa busied herself by talking about the history and architecture of Winterfell, explaining how the ancient fortress had been added on to through the years and that, unfortunately, it made it quite difficult to navigate.

“Hopefully you don’t end up too terribly lost,” finished Sansa, as they exited a winding staircase onto an upper level of the Keep.

“I’m sure Theon will know the way,” offered Yara, smirking as they continued down a hallway until Sansa brought them to a stop.

“Here we are,” she announced, pointing to two doors, each leading into their own chambers. “I hope you find everything to your comfort. I’ll have your things brought up and if there’s anything you are in need of—”

“And where are your chambers, dear hostess?” interrupted Yara, leaning casually against the stone wall.

“ _ Yara, _ ” came Theon’s admonishment from behind his elder sibling.

“What?” she replied, turning to her brother and assuming a façade of pure innocence. “I thought it might be helpful to know, just in case I need a mug of warm ale in the middle of the night,” she explained, sparing a wink for Sansa.

“Please forgive her impetuousness, Your Grace,” apologized Theon, while staring down his sister. “We’re not taught the courtesies of the mainland on the Iron Islands.”

Sansa smiled at the scene of sibling bickering before her, realizing how much she missed this sort of easy domesticity now that her own family was either gone or scattered to the four corners. She raised a mediating hand. “It’s quite alright.” She nodded back toward where they had just come. “Up those stairs, down the hall, and I’m the second door on the right. Should you need warm ale or otherwise,” she added, with a smile. The volley clearly delighted Yara.

“Please rest; supper will be in the Great Hall after sundown.” Sansa finished her courtesies with a small nod and glided past them, desperately trying not to catch Theon Greyjoy’s eye.

The sun had already sank below the horizon as Sansa Stark strode into the Great Hall, one of the last to arrive. Conversation and loud laughter echoed off the high stone walls creating a din so thick that walking through it was almost like pushing through a dense forest. Some of the Ironborn had mingled in with the Northerners, while a few groups kept huddled to themselves conversing and occasionally glancing around the large room. Servers and maids bustled about the hall, struggling to keep plates and tankards full.

A few guards caught sight of Sansa, red braid draped over the midnight blue weave of her gown, and immediately stood, catching the attention of others until finally the entire room was silently at attention. Sansa did not pause and made her way quickly to the raised dais at the end of the hall, head held high as she endeavored to ignore the feeling of so many pairs of eyes watching her.  _ At least these are friendly eyes _ , she reminded herself, remembering her many times at court in King’s Landing, the snakes and vipers with their stares and whispers.

Seated at the high table already were some of the Northern Queen’s advisors, as well as one of the Ironborn captains and of course, at the place of honor to her left, were Yara and Theon Greyjoy. Without hesitation, she climbed the steps to the dais and stepped between her chair and the table, nodding greetings to those at either side of her. Privately, this was the part of her new daily life as queen that she dreaded the most: the looks, the attention, the fact that more often than not, most of her dinner companions were men.

With a steady hand, she reached out and took up her silver goblet to address the gathering before her. “This evening, we welcome our Ironborn allies to our tables, to share our meat and share our ale,” she announced, her voice echoing out across the hall. “We especially welcome their fierce queen, Yara Greyjoy as well as her brother Theon, a hero of the Battle of Winterfell and the ward of my departed father, Lord Eddard Stark.” She turned to the siblings at her left, and gave her cup a raise. “Welcome,” Sansa said with a smile, before tipping the goblet to her lips and taking a drink. 

“Thank you for your kind words, Your Grace,” replied Yara, all courtesy, before turning out to the gathering. “Now Ironborn, let’s show these Northern boys how  _ real _ men drink!” At that, a raucous cheer went up from many of the men assembled and immediately the hall was again filled with the din of talk and cheers and laughter.

Servers hurried out from the kitchen, laden with trays of black bread and hot stew. Behind Sansa, a steward began serving plates of different meats, breads, and cheeses to the honored guests. It was one thing Sansa truly missed about King’s Landing: the feasts.

For a moment, she picked absently at her meal, pushing the carrots around in her stew with her spoon. In the back of her mind, she thought about the quiet pang of disappointment she’d felt upon realizing that she wouldn’t be seated next to Theon, despite firmly knowing that courtesy demanded Yara sit at her left hand instead. Smothering the thought, she turned to the Ironborn woman at her elbow. “Your Grace, I wondered if you might have any early thoughts about our movements—”

Immediately Yara clicked her tongue, waving a finger in front of Sansa. “Ah—now is not the time for such boring discussions, my sweet young queen. Let a woman drink her fill and have a night on a soft feather bed— _ then _ we may discuss the deployment of our footmen and so on and so on.”

“Alright,” Sansa conceded with a smile. “Tomorrow morning then. And what should we speak of in the meantime?”

“Well, first—” began Yara, looking over her shoulders before finally spotting a young, auburn-haired girl, nervously standing against the wall behind her, silver pitcher in hand. “You,” called Yara after the girl. “Be a sweet thing and fill the cup of this weary traveler?”

The young woman blinked to attention, eyes darting nervously between Stark and Greyjoy. “Pardon, Your Grace,” she pleaded to Yara, “that is— _ Your _ Grace—it’s just—I’m actually, well,  _ Her _ Grace’s cupbearer and—”

“It’s alright, Dynah,” said Sansa, waving the stuttering girl forward. “Pour for our guest.”

Yara held out her glass to the young woman triumphantly. “Such a unique problem to have,” said Yara with a smirk. “Too many queens.”

Sansa returned the smile. “Indeed.”

Dynah had barely finished topping off the Greyjoy’s cup before Yara brought it to her mouth and took a strong swig. As the liquid hit her lips, her eyebrows raised and she leveled a stare at Sansa, eliciting a small laugh from the Northerner.

“Now you know my secret,” grinned Sansa, taking a sip of her own goblet.

“What is it?” asked Yara, peering into her cup.

“Honeyed wine,” explained Sansa. “An unfortunate result of coming of age in King’s Landing. I was never able to develop a taste for northern ale, but…” she cocked her head out to the crowd, “don’t let any of  _ them _ know that.”

Yara let out a hearty laugh, turning to her brother, who had been sipping his stew quietly. “Do you hear this, little brother? Barely a night in the kingdom and already the queen is spilling all her dark secrets to me.” Theon gave a huff of laughter, catching Sansa’s eye. The intimacy of it made her look away and Theon returned to his stew.

“So,” continued Yara, “I’ve heard tales that they call you  _ the Red Wolf _ and that on a moonless night you can take the form of a great direwolf and slay unfaithful husbands in their beds—any truth to that one?”

Sansa wasn’t sure if it was the drink making Yara so bold or if boldness was a constant state of being for her—she assumed the latter, but nevertheless, she enjoyed the easy company of the Greyjoy. She couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed so much or smiled so often.

“Can’t give away all my secrets, now can I?” replied Sansa, feeling bold herself. As Yara laughed and took another drink of wine, Sansa noticed a huddle of Northerners and Ironborn sitting a small stone’s throw from the dais. They had been talking amongst themselves but every so often would cast a glance up towards where Theon sat and then erupt into a chorus of guffaws. For his part, Theon kept his eyes trained on his supper, occasionally taking a measured sip from his goblet.

As Yara set her cup down on the table, another burst of laughter echoed out from the group of men. With careful deliberation, Theon set down his spoon and pushed his chair back from the table. He stood and gave a small bow towards Sansa. “Apologies, Your Grace. The journey today was long,” he said simply, his eyes on the floor.

The smile that had come so easily to Sansa’s face moments before was now a struggle to maintain. “Of course. Rest well, my lord.” And at that, he quietly descended from the dais and out of the Hall.

The joy had faded from both the queens’ faces and with it, the light and warm atmosphere. For a moment, Yara said nothing, simply staring into the depths of her cup. She took another drink before speaking. “When my brother was a baby, you could hardly shut him up. He would cry day and night, the fussy little thing. It didn’t get any better when he learned to speak—he’d prattle on and on, it’d nearly drive our father insane.” She gave a sigh. “Never thought I’d see the day when I hated him being so bloody quiet.”

Sansa stared at her own cup, running her thumb over the rim.

“He puts on a brave face,” Yara continued. “But—well, you know him probably better than I do,” she finished, with another drink of wine.

Did she? Of course, Theon had certainly spent more of his childhood in Winterfell than Pyke, and beyond that, well—they’d been through the seven hells together and managed to emerge on the other side. In this, she felt closer to Theon than she did her own blood siblings, and yet, now it felt like he was still an ocean away, even though he had been just a few feet from her.

A silence hung in the air before Sansa took a deep breath and stood up. “Would you excuse me, Your Grace? I was up with the crows this morning and want to make sure I’m well-rested for our appointments tomorrow.” Yara appraised her briefly before waving her hand in a dramatic bow. “I wouldn’t want to keep  _ the Red Wolf  _ from her sleep.”

Courtesies nodded, Sansa made her way back through the warm, loud hall, pushing through the heavy wooden doors out into the brisk night air. The coolness on her face was like a splash of cold water, revitalizing her. She continued on her path, the noise of the hall fading behind her until she was only left with the steady rhythm of her heart beating in her chest.

Her feet took her past the yard, past the walkway to the Keep, past the maester’s tower until finally, she found herself at the entrance of the godswood. She lingered for a moment, wanting to summon her courage but quickly realized that as she lingered, her courage slipped away.

Resolute, she pressed on, past the ancient trees with their whispering leaves until she came to the familiar clearing containing the heart tree. Spread out in front of it was the dark pool whose murky depths had fascinated Sansa as a child, and standing at its edge was the figure of Theon Greyjoy.

She stopped short just a small distance away. She hadn’t thought what to say, she hadn’t even really known he’d be here. But maybe Yara was right—perhaps she knew him better than she realized.

Ever the adept hunter, he must’ve known he was being watched by more than just the gods of the First Men, as he looked up and caught sight of Sansa. There was no turning back now, so she came and stood along the edge of the pond with him, keeping a respectable distance.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt your prayers,” she apologized, clasping her hands in front of her to try and ease her nerves.

He shook his head, that soft smile returning again. “Not sure if I pray anymore, Your Grace.”

“You don’t have to  _ Your Grace _ me out here,” she offered quietly. 

“Alright,” he acquiesced warmly. “Sansa, then.” What was it about the way he said her name, the emphasis he gave to the first  _ a _ ? She felt a flutter in her chest and hoped that in the pale moonlight he couldn’t see the color coming to her cheeks.

“Anyway, I’m not actually queen yet,” she pushed on. “My coronation isn’t for another fortnight. Have to finish my gown first,” she added lightly.

For a moment, a silence hung between them. Theon was the first to break it. “I told Yara that I shouldn’t come,” he admitted, his eyes returning to the pool. “I told her that it would be too much, that I had—committed too many  _ wrongs _ against the North, that me coming risked ruining what you and Yara and Daenerys were trying to do. But she wouldn’t hear it; she told me I needed to be here, that it was important—"

“Ignore them,” Sansa cut in, her voice hard.

“I do,” he replied, a weariness in his voice that broke Sansa’s heart. “Every day. I ignore their jabs and their stares, but it’s hard when everyone  _ knows _ —” 

“They don’t know anything about you,” Sansa cut in again, looking deep into his sea glass depths.  _ They don’t know you the way I do.  _ And for a moment they stood, with no sound but the wind quietly brushing against the leaves.

“Do you know,” Sansa said finally, “that I found you—just over there.” She turned to point at a spot a few yards away that once had been caked with hard icy snow, now replaced with the melt of spring. “I ran here from the crypts and when I came it was… a nightmare. There were bodies everywhere— arrows sticking out of the ground—the smell of blood… I’d been at the field when Jon fought Ramsay, but this was worse somehow. Because of the night or the cold, I’m not sure.” She paused, swallowing the memory.

“It was Bran who told me where you were—he must’ve known you were alive—but when I got down beside you, I thought you had to be dead. You were so cold.” Her last words were a whisper, as she struggled to push past the emotion, the grief she had felt when she thought he might never open his eyes again. “Do you remember it at all?” she asked.

He narrowed his eyes, trying to recall. “I remember that— _ thing _ had appeared and I had run out of arrows, so I took up my spear—I thought that maybe if I could just slow him down—”

“Were you afraid?”

He almost laughed. “I’d never been so afraid in my whole life—wanted to run the opposite direction, quite honestly. But I just barreled on and hoped that at the last second I wouldn’t lose my courage.” He paused, trying to sort out the recollection. “I do remember, that as I got closer to him, it got colder. Running at him was like having a cold wind burn your face. But, nothing much after that.” A light smile played on his lips. “Probably for the best. Next thing I know, I woke up on the ship just off the coast. Certainly the closest I’ve ever gotten to actually making Yara cry.” 

There was that lop-sided smirk again, and just for a second, standing here in the godswood of Winterfell, he looked like the easygoing Theon from their youth.

“She cares about you,” offered Sansa. “She was so worried when she came to Winterfell—”

“Sansa.” Her name on his lips silenced her. “I owe you my life.” The smirk was gone, replaced by the earnest look in his eyes, the look that made Sansa feel like the innermost parts of her soul were laid bare for him to see.

“You owe me nothing. You almost died protecting Bran.” He seemed to open his mouth to argue. “You owe me  _ nothing _ ,” she repeated, this time with finality.

Once again silence spread out between them and both their eyes returned to the pond, its black surface a perfect mirror for the crescent moon. Sansa stared into its immutable depths, briefly wondering if she’d made a mistake coming to the wood, if she’d made a mistake accepting Daenerys’ proposal.

“Do you also know,” Sansa began quietly, hoping to shift the mood between them, “that Jeyne and I once spied on you from behind that very tree over there?” She closed an eye, fingering a particularly thick trunk off in the distance.

“You and Jeyne?” Theon repeated. “Spied on me?”

Sansa nodded, doubting the wisdom of admitting to this memory but continuing on anyway. “Apparently she knew about your late night visits to the godswood—well, to this very pond, actually,” Sansa admitted, taking a step back from its edge. 

“No…” Theon hesitated, suddenly finding the path that Sansa’s story was taking.

“She didn’t tell me anything at first, simply that I ought to come with her. So, one night, we snuck out of our beds, and she led me down here and we both saw you as you—well, as you  _ got into _ the pond.” Sansa bit her lip to contain her laughter. Theon let out a deep exhale.

“So, you saw it… all… then?” he asked, gesturing vaguely to himself. Sansa nodded.

“Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t find us out, what with Jeyne’s  _ incessant _ giggling.” Theon rubbed the back of his neck with his gloved palm, cringing from the past embarrassment, which elicited a laugh from his companion.

“It’s freezing though, isn’t it?” asked Sansa, when she had recovered herself. “I’d never thought it was suitable for bathing.”

“It’s not  _ that _ bad,” offered Theon, nodding towards the pool. “And, well, it reminded me a bit of home—of Pyke,” he admitted. Sansa felt a brief pang of pain for him—she knew now what it was to be miles away from the place you called home. “In all honesty, it was quite refreshing.” The lop-sided grin returned to his face and he took a step towards Sansa. “Maybe you’d like to see for yourself…?”

Laughing, Sansa put her hands out defensively. “Don’t you  _ dare _ even think about it, Theon Greyjoy.” He took another sudden step towards her, throwing out his hands, causing Sansa to let out a startled shriek of laughter. He advanced again, the godswood ringing with Sansa’s peals of tittering.

“Alright, alright,” he conceded at last, holding up his hands innocently, but the mischief still on his face. 

“I think she quite fancied you,” Sansa continued, when her laughter had subdued. “Jeyne, I mean.” Theon’s grin grew wider.

“You knew,” Sansa guessed, before narrowing her eyes and studying him closer. “Wait—you two—did you—?" 

“Just a few kisses,” asserted Theon, waving his hands dismissively. “ _ Honest _ ,” he insisted when Sansa crossed her arms, unconvinced. “I think she fancied Jon more anyway, what with the dark hair and all his brooding.” It was an accurate image of her brother and it made Sansa smile all the more.

“The truth is,” Theon continued, but Sansa noticed the change in his tone. “When we were children, I’d often thought—well, I’d hoped, really—that maybe, someday, Lord Eddard might take me as his son by—well, by wedding me to one of his daughters.” He looked at Sansa. “By wedding me to you.”

It was like the ground was sinking beneath her and Sansa struggled to keep herself on her own two feet. That had been years ago, she insisted to herself. Ancient history. But if it was so long ago and of no consequence, then what was this rush of emotion bursting through her chest?

“Like I said, we were just children,” Theon said, trying to brush his words away. “And besides, Joffrey came along and shot quite the hole in that plan.”

Ruining things—that had certainly been Joffrey’s specialty.

But Sansa couldn’t help but wonder, how much more different would her life have been if her father had betrothed her to his ward, the young Theon Greyjoy, instead of Cersei’s bastard son? She would have never gone south, certainly, never fallen into the pit of vipers that was King’s Landing. Her father may have still gone, may have still tried to dutifully serve his old friend and been repaid with the loss of his head.

But if Sansa had had to endure the loss of her father and maybe even still the loss of Robb, she at least wouldn’t have done so alone, behind enemy lines. Her mother would have dried her tears, kissed her cheek, and held her tight. She wouldn’t have had to press muffled sobs into her pillow at night, until her heart finally hardened against the pain.

Behind the walls of Winterfell, Sansa wouldn’t have found herself entangled in Littlefinger’s political spiderwebs. She wouldn’t have been bought and sold like some mare, being passed from unwanted husband to unwanted husband. She wouldn’t have been traded into Ramsay’s torture chamber, praying for an end to her nights there, either by escape or death.

And what of Theon? Theon, who grew up between two families without truly belonging to either, who was always stuck on the outside looking in? One father traded him away as a pawn in a political move, and the other was honor-bound to take his head should the Iron Islands once again rise up in rebellion. Perhaps if he’d been tied to the family he shared his meals with through a bond more virtuous than political ransom, he might never have defied Robb, might never have seized Winterfell, might never have fallen to the contestable mercy of the Boltons.

The Boltons.

It was through their shared survival of Ramsay that their own bond had been formed, amorphous and undefined as it might be to Sansa, but it was undeniable that something was there, connecting them even after all this time. What if they had found a bond forged not out of a shared terror, but of something gentler and more tempered?

She knew the younger version of herself well enough to predict that she would have fought her father initially—the cocky and self-satisfied Theon she knew in her youth was a far cry from the knights of songs she’d so often dreamed of. But surely her mother would have taken her aside and reminded her of Catelyn’s own story of betrothal—that a love built on a sturdy foundation and laid deliberately, stone by stone, would weather more storms than some summer dalliance.

From the far reaches of her memory, her father’s words came to her, spoken gently when she had begged and pleaded not to be taken from King’s Landing, from Joffrey:

_ When you’re old enough, I will make you a match with someone who’s worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong. _

Sansa looked at the man standing just an arm’s length away from her, a man who possessed all these qualities and more. In another life, would he have become her gallant knight? Would they have grown to love one another, safe behind the walls of Winterfell, far from all those who had sought to harm them in this life?

Once again, the northern wind brushed through the overhead branches of the weirwood tree, bringing with it a vision in Sansa’s mind.

In it, she saw herself walking through the godswood, same as the night she was given away to Ramsay. She walked towards the small gathering before the heart tree, clad in her ghostly white wool dress, fur draped around her shoulders. Her father would have escorted her, or, in his absence, Robb; tall and proud in his dark velvet doublet. He would have smiled at her with his own set of Tully blue eyes, and it would have quieted the nervous flutters in her stomach.

At the end of the snowy path leading to the heart tree would have been waiting not Ramsay, her to-be tormentor, but Theon. He would lift his chin when he saw her, in an attempt to hide behind his proud façade when in truth, he would be just as nervous as her. They would take each other’s hands, the maester would say the old words, and they would leave the godswood together, joined as man and wife.

She would never know the simmering hatred of being married off to her captors, never know the shame and anger of having her autonomy repeatedly violated. Theon would never know the pain of being shunned by two families, would never have his identity shattered and cruelly pieced back together.

The vision faded away and the night before her came back into view. Emotions welled in her eyes and when she met Theon’s gaze, he returned it with such tenderness that suddenly her feet were closing the distance between them. She felt the self-built walls within herself trying to rise, like they did the night of the Battle of Winterfell, but she pushed past them, shoved them down. And when she stood toe to toe with him, she took his cheek in her hand and she kissed him.

His lips were warm against hers and soft, too—not as soft as Margaery’s, maybe, but nobody’s were. For a moment neither of them moved, standing still as the statues in the Winterfell crypt. Then, she felt his hand come under her cloak and around her waist, soft and deliberate. She pressed her chest against him, relishing the contact, the connection, and suddenly she realized just how desperately alone she had felt in the absence of Jon and Arya and Brienne and even Bran. 

They stayed like that for how long Sansa did not know, until she felt his gloved hand reach up to cradle her face and his lips part, about to deepen their kiss. And then suddenly, she was acting on instinct—she wasn’t sure if he had simply startled her or moved too fast, but deep in the pit of her stomach she felt that loss of control that she had felt every time Ramsay moved towards her or Littlefinger reached out for her. 

It came over her in an instant and suddenly she was breaking out of Theon’s embrace and backing away out of his reach. And just like that the moment was over. Sansa became vaguely aware of her racing heart and a sudden rise of sweat on the back of her neck. She looked at Theon, who looked back startled and confused. She struggled to find words, to find an explanation, but she could only stammer out a breathy, “I’m sorry,” before turning and hurrying back in the direction of the Keep.

As she walked, she did not know if she was relieved or heartbroken that she heard no footsteps behind her.

* * *

The next morning, Sansa awoke in a hazy fog. It did not matter how small a dose of milk of the poppy she took to ward off her insomnia, she always seemed to come-to as if she were struggling to free herself from a pit of mud. Admittedly, she may have taken a slightly heavier dose last night for fear of being left alone to replay the evening’s events over and over as she stared up at the ceiling.

Sitting up, Sansa peered out the window. Day was breaking. She pressed a cool palm to her forehead and closed her eyes. It seemed she was developing a habit of embarrassing herself in front of Theon Greyjoy.

She had panicked last night. It had happened often with Jon after she escaped Ramsay. She trusted her brother deeply, knew him to be as good and as honorable as their father, and yet Jon had quickly learned to guard his movements around his sister. Once in conversation on the battlements of Castle Black, the wind had blown across them and he’d moved to brush the hair from his face. A benign gesture, but Sansa’s eyes had only seen a hand raise up against her. She’d flinched and instinctively moved her arms to defend herself. Realizing her error in embarrassment, she’d apologized. Jon told her she didn’t need to.

Over the months she’d gotten better, but sometimes she was still caught off-guard. Someone would tap her on the shoulder, or move in the corner of her eye. She didn’t apologize anymore, but she still felt a shame about it that she couldn’t escape.

She hated that she had left Theon standing there with no explanation. Her pain was her own but to leave him so suddenly and with no words felt unfair. It had just been too much all at once, and she hadn’t known what to say. But, she reminded herself, if anyone were to understand, it would be Theon.

So, she resolved to go and speak to him as the first matter of the day. She would apologize for her abrupt departure, explain why she had fled so suddenly, and ask to start again. She ignored how quickly it made her heart beat to think of it.

After Lyselle had brought Sansa her breakfast and her letters and the relevant gossip from around the castle, she helped the queen into her gown and bodice, brushed and braided her hair, and then quietly dismissed herself.

Sansa surveyed herself in the mirror, smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress, and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. When at last she accepted that she could delay no longer, she took a deep breath, crossed to her chamber door and pulled it open—only to discover Theon Greyjoy on the other side of it, arm raised in preparation to knock.

“Theon,” she breathed in surprise. He smiled and opened his closed fist, turning his interrupted knock into a small wave hello.

“Good morning, Sansa.” There it was again: the sound of her name on his tongue. It brought a flush to her cheeks. “May I come in?”

Instantly, she moved out of the doorway, “Yes, please, come in,” she beckoned. “I was just coming to see you.” He nodded and stepped into her chambers, as Sansa closed the door behind him. “I think I owe you an apology. Last night—" she began but Theon shook his head, his soft curls brushing against his forehead.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Sansa,” he insisted, still smiling. A small blanket of relief came over Sansa’s heart.

“Still, it wasn’t very— _ proper _ —for me to—” She hesitated. “ _ Embrace _ you like that. I am sorry.”

“No, no,” he continued, waving his hand. “I know Winterfell has a lot of…memories for the both of us and I’m sure a lot of things came flooding back. It was surely overwhelming for both of us.” 

Where once there had been relief in Sansa, there now grew a feeling of dread. “I’m not sure—” she began but Theon continued on.

“It’s just, I think I may have given you the wrong impression, telling you about silly things from childhood.” He was trying to keep his tone light, but Sansa noticed he wouldn’t meet her eye.

“Of course,” she replied, the chasm of dread inside of her growing wider.

“Sansa, I know that we have… weathered a lot of things together,” he took a small step toward her, his voice gentle. “I want you to know you can always come to me for anything. You are, after all, like a sister to me.”

_ Sister _ .

The word was so small and sharp, it was as if Arya had slid her slender Needle up under Sansa’s ribs.

“Yes—yes, of  _ course _ ,” Sansa managed to choke out around the lump in her throat. She took a deep breath through her nose and forced out a small laugh. “I’m not sure what came over me last night, but I am grateful for you behaving so honorably about it.” She plastered on a smile and looked into his eyes and at that moment he felt so faraway from her that he may as well have been back in Pyke.

“But,” she soldiered on, “we ought to be on our way. I’m sure your sister and the others will be wondering where we are,” she said, opening the door again and ending their conversation. He lingered for a moment before finally moving to the doorway.

“You ought to go on ahead,” she urged him. “I forgot, I have a letter to King’s Landing that I need to seal up.” She flashed another brief smile and closed the door behind him. Leaning against it, she listened to his soft footsteps fade away on the stone. Once she was sure he was gone, she closed her eyes, dropped her head, and let her tears roll silently down her cheeks.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you thank you to everyone who's been reading, and especially thank you for the kudos and the kind comments - it really does mean a lot! I hope you are still enjoying our little sofft ship. <3 Quite a bit of dialogue in this one, which I sometimes struggle with, so apologies in advance! Please note that in this chapter there are references to past abuse. Nothing explicit, just general Ramsay. Please proceed with caution if this is sensitive material for you. <3

Sansa had been a fool.

All this time, she had been casting dreamy doe-eyed glances at Theon Greyjoy and she had been foolish enough to believe that he actually returned her affections. How many months had she spent pining after him, thinking herself one of the forlorn lovers from the songs she loved in her youth? How many nights did she close her eyes to sleep and, unbidden, his face washed up into her thoughts like the sea onto the sand? What tragic lovers she thought they were, separated by a continent but connected through a string of fate.

_ A classic fool you were, Sansa,  _ she thought bitterly to herself.

And yet, there was a part of her that insisted she hadn’t imagined it. She hadn’t imagined his sweet smiles or the soft look in his seafoam eyes. Had she really misconstrued his platonic feelings for something more? Even last night, he had taken her by the waist, he’d touched her cheek…

Unconsciously, she brought her fingers to her lips, remembering the sensation. It still made her heart flutter. In that moment, she had wanted him and she knew—well, she  _ thought _ she knew—that he wanted her, too.

_ He pitied you,  _ came an ugly voice from the back of her mind.  _ You practically threw yourself at him—he didn’t want to embarrass you _ .

The pain of it made Sansa clench her teeth together. Fresh tears rolled down her face. The voice had to be right.

As quickly as the tears had come, she willed them away. She was a queen now and she would not— _ could  _ not—show so much weakness. After all, she had to host him as her guest for the next fortnight at least. Retrieving a handkerchief from her nightstand, she patted her face dry, took a deep breath, and proceeded to make her way from the Keep to her council chambers.

Sansa was the last to arrive to the war room. Upon entering, she strode directly over to the large wooden table where a map of the North had been laid out, eager to get to the business at hand and quickly. 

“I pray you’ve had a good night of rest, Your Grace, as I’m eager to hear your thoughts about my rebellious coastline.” Sansa spoke to Yara, but kept her eyes trained firmly on the map. 

“You really are all business, aren’t you, Red Wolf?” laughed Yara, joining her at the map. “Don’t worry, we Ironborn know a thing or two about rebellions.”

Yara and her Ironborn captain moved ships and tokens across the giant map, explaining their tactics to the young queen. Occasionally, Sansa’s advisor, Lord Allyn, would interject to correct their knowledge of this road or that, or sometimes to voice a full protest. As the discussion continued on, Sansa quickly saw just how limited her knowledge of combat was and she soon found herself grateful to the Targaryen for proposing this match in the first place. 

After much back and forth, it appeared they had a plan. The Ironborn would set out south, through the Barrowlands, before fording the river and striking out west into the Rills. It was certainly the more “scenic” route as Lord Allyn muttered under his breath more than once, but ultimately their hope was that it might mask their movements from the Red Hand and allow them to strike down the brigands more advantageously.

“You ought to send me, Yara,” spoke up Theon at last. “I know that region—it’s easy for a man unfamiliar to get lost out that way, especially when the roads get snowed over.”

“Are you expecting a summer snow at this time, brother?” asked Yara dismissively. “No, I need you here, by my side,” she continued, not waiting for an answer. “Someone will need to help me take notes on all this tilling and farming nonsense. Captain Kenning will lead the men out to the Rills and continue on from there.”

_ See? _ came the ugly voice again.  _ He’s begging his sister to send him away, that’s how desperate he is to get away from you. _

Sansa tried to swallow the lump forming in her throat. 

“Lord Allyn, do you have any objections to this plan?” asked Sansa brusquely. 

He furrowed his brow, his great shaggy eyebrows knitting together. “None so far, Your Grace. Provided the Ironborn don’t deviate from their proposed movements.”

“I trust the judgement of anyone handpicked by Yara Greyjoy,” said Sansa, leveling a firm stare at the older man. “And, in the future, if you have concerns, voice them directly. This is a war room of the North, not the court of some southron lord.”

Yara cast a sidelong look at the Stark Queen. “Red Wolf indeed.”

“How quickly can the Ironborn be on the move?” Sansa asked of Kenning. He looked to his Queen as he answered. “Probably as quick as tomorrow’s morning, if Your Grace can supplement our supplies.”

Sansa gave a quick nod. “Then you’ll leave at first light. Our master of arms can fill any gaps in your equipment, and our steward will see to your provisions. If there’s nothing else?” Sansa looked around to the group, but no dissent came.

The Northern Queen dismissed them, taking her own leave as quickly as possible so as to avoid Theon. Briefly, she wished for nothing more than to return to her chambers and climb under the furs, but there was work to be done. Appointments to keep, stores to check. Soon enough, she found herself glad for the distraction. But as she collapsed into her bed at the end of the day, she reminded herself she would not be able to avoid Theon forever. That, however, was a problem for the Sansa of tomorrow.

* * *

  
  


The following day was much of the same. Sansa, still unsure of what to do or say around Theon now that she knew he did not return her feelings, had postponed their appointment for today under the guise of needing to complete her gown fitting for her coronation. It was true, of course—she  _ did _ need to have her gown completed, but it was such a paper-thin excuse, she could hardly believe that Yara had accepted it.

“Something wrong, Your Grace?” Lyselle’s voice startled her out of her thoughts.

“Hm? No, no. I was just… thinking,” Sansa finished awkwardly. She looked up from her hands to survey herself in the mirror. The Stark Queen stood poised on a small round platform as Lyselle and a few of her other lady’s maids sat crouched around her on small stools, diligently marking the hem of what would soon be her coronation gown. 

Lyselle returned to the work in her lap, her needle silently slipping in and out of the fabric. “Lots of going-ons in the castle these days,” she commented as she sewed.

“Mm hmm,” came Sansa’s absent reply.

“Quite interesting having the Ironborn around here, too,” prodded the handmaid again.

Sansa ignored her bait, instead inspecting the unfinished edge of the gown’s currently singular sleeve. “Have you finished the embroidery on the other sleeve yet?” she dodged.

Lyselle stood, stretching her back and pointing to a dark-haired woman sitting in the corner, poring over a hoop. “Beth is working on it now, Your Grace. It ought to be finished soon. Apologies, I know we wanted to set the other sleeve today.”

“It’s alright,” commented Sansa, half-heartedly. “It’ll get done.” Her handmaid gave a small nod before sitting down and resuming her work and Sansa returned her gaze to the mirror. Looking back at her was a stately woman, about to be crowned queen of the free and independent North. She should feel… joy? Gratitude? Satisfaction? The truth was, she hardly felt anything at all. In fact, she felt much like the state of her gown: incomplete. 

As her thoughts gave way to the quiet sounds of rustling fabric and whispering maids, she suddenly became aware of a face in the mirror: it was Theon, standing halfway in the doorway behind her. She couldn’t help but breathe his name in surprise, as she turned at the waist to face him.

“Apologies for the intrusion, Your Grace. I hoped I might have a word,” he said, taking a step in.

“Leave us,” Sansa commanded quietly and all at once her maids set down their work and quickly filed out of the room, the last one quietly shutting the chamber door behind herself. Sansa noted the quick glances they all exchanged, but ignored them.

For a moment they simply stood together in silence. Her embarrassment from the other morning was still fresh, but nevertheless, she still found herself relaxed in his presence. He had a calming effect on her, like the gentle fragrance from a bundle of lavender.

“Is this to be your coronation gown then?” he asked at last, gesturing to the garment.

“Hopefully,” she replied back with a smile. 

“Your design?”

She nodded. 

“You always were a brilliant seamstress, Sansa,” he complimented, walking around the platform to inspect the dress. “It’s an interesting motif on the fabric.” He leaned closer to inspect it. “Are those… leaves?”

Sansa gave another nod, running her hands over the grey patterned fabric and watching it shimmer in the light. “It’s not a very northern pattern, but it—it reminded me of someone,” she finished, meeting his gaze. With anyone else, she would’ve left it at that, brushed on to another subject, but there was something about Theon, something about the way he looked at her. It made her guard crumble. She felt the tears line her eyes.

“It was someone important, but…” She struggled for the words to explain.

It had been Margaery—she’d used a similar fabric in her wedding dress to Joffrey, and of course, leaves had been a natural fit for House Tyrell. But she’d never told anyone about how close they’d been, knowing how poorly it would be viewed. Still, Margaery had been so important in her life—the bright spot during her dark imprisonment at the hands of the Lannisters. Sansa had had no friends, no confidantes, until Margaery had come to court, like a burst of sunshine. And so, Sansa wanted to tribute her, to have a piece of her by her side on what would be one of the most important days of her life. 

Sansa worried at her lip, not knowing how to explain any of this, not even to Theon. “They’re gone now,” she managed, a weak smile on her lips.

“I’m sorry,” he said simply, but looked at her with such warmth, it was like a balm on the wound.

In the corner, Theon spied a braided circlet, carefully resting on a velvet pillow. “Is that your crown?” he asked, as a way of changing the subject. Grateful, Sansa nodded. He walked over to it and gently picked it up, peering closely at the two direwolves ornamenting it. He turned to her, presenting it, “May I?”

Sansa bent down and with great care, Theon placed the circlet atop her auburn hair. She rose and Theon appraised her for a moment, a smile on his lips. “It suits you.”

She returned the smile. “I know.” They shared a brief laugh.

“It’s heavier than I thought it would be,” she admitted, her hand touching the crown gently. 

Theon hummed his agreement. “They usually are.” After a moment, he added, “Robb would be so proud to see you.”

She smiled again, slipping the circlet off her head. “He’d be proud to see you, too.”

“That’s actually why I came to see you,” he said, his gaze shifting. “I’m not in any position to ask, but I was hoping--” he paused, taking a deep breath. “I was hoping you might allow me into the crypts. To pay my respects.”

The thought of the crypts made Sansa shiver. She hadn’t been to them since the battle and truthfully, she had wondered if she would ever be able to summon the courage to go into them again. But, there was something in Theon’s voice, something in the way he dropped his eyes—he wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important.

“Let me get dressed and we’ll go.”

* * *

As they descended the stone steps into the chilly Winterfell crypts, a shiver overcame Sansa. She pulled her fur tight around her shoulders. Theon walked a step ahead of her, his torch held just above his head, its light casting peculiar flickering shadows around them.

At last, they came out of the stairwell. The crypts were so dark that they seemed to eat the torchlight—as they walked past statues of the long-since dead, the light seemed to barely touch their stone faces, so oppressive was the blackness. Sansa took a deep, steadying breath as they walked, prompting Theon to look back at her. 

“It’s not too late, I could take you back up,” he offered gently, having already insisted before that he could make the trek alone.

Sansa shook her head. “I’m alright.”

They continued on, past Cregan Stark, the Old Man of the North, and her grandfather, Rickard Stark, whose faces Sansa only knew from their statue. Her aunt Lynanna quietly appeared at her side, her blank stone eyes peering out into nothingness, followed shortly by her father, and then finally, Robb.

He sat on a carved throne, a sword touched with rust across his knees, Greywind seated nobly at his feet. His time as an earthly king may have been brief but here in the cold and damp darkness, he rule from his throne, immortal.

“It doesn’t look like him,” Theon said mournfully, his words coming out in smoky wisps.

“It’s the eyes,” she admitted. The sculptor had known Robb—Sansa had made sure of it—but so much of Robb was contained in those bright blue orbs of his, that without them, he was almost unrecognizable. 

They stood in their halo of light, the only sound being the faint echo of dripping water. Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa noticed the edge of the light waver and for a brief moment, her heart was gripped with cold fear. Until she turned and saw that Theon was quietly crying, and quickly her fear turned to pity.

Without a word, she placed a gloved hand on Theon’s shoulder. 

“Forgive me,” she heard him whisper and she knew his plea wasn’t directed at her. 

* * *

  
  
  


That night at supper, as the Great Hall filled once again with warmth and laughter and firelight, Yara leaned over the arm of her chair to speak in Sansa’s ear. “You did my brother a kindness today.”

Sansa shook her head demurely. “It was nothing.”

“Not to him,” Yara insisted, taking a large gulp of wine. 

“Are you intending to drink me out of house and home, Your Grace?” asked Sansa wryly, raising an eyebrow whilst artfully dodging Yara’s prods. 

“This is your own fault, Red Wolf,” retorted Yara, holding her goblet and pointing a finger at the Stark queen. “You invite the Ironborn to your table, you bloody well better have your wine stores topped off. Isn’t that right, brother?” demanded Yara, addressing Theon who sat eating quietly on her other side. 

“Once again, I offer my apologies, Your Grace.” Theon leaned around his sister to address Sansa. “My sister is, in fact, an ungrateful Wildling.” Yara returned her brother’s remark with a playful swat before turning back to the red-haired queen.

“I  _ will _ need more wine if I’m to sit through any more of these tiresome appointments with your masters of grain and livestock and whatever the hell else. I’m about to discover if it’s truly possible to expire from sheer boredom.”

“I thought you did as your High Counselor commanded?” asked Sansa over her own cup of wine.

Yara let out a derisive snort. “It’s not the first time I’ve made a bad decision in the name of a pretty face. And it certainly won’t be the last,” she added with a sly smile. “What do you think of our white-haired beauty anyway?”

Sansa took a deep breath. She hoped the wine hadn’t loosened her tongue too much.

“I’m… conflicted,” Sansa said measuredly. “I think her concern for the smallfolk is genuine, but—I worry.” She searched for her words carefully. “I worry that her vision is too single-minded.”

Yara bobbed her head, weighing Sansa’s words. “A fair assessment,” she said at last.

“Why do you follow her? Why do you bend the knee?”

The Ironborn woman leveled her gaze at the Stark. “You’ve seen the dragon, haven’t you?”

Sansa laughed. 

“In truth, my sweet Red Wolf, I think Daenerys is our best cure for what plagues our realm.”

“And what plagues us?”

“The desires of men,” the Greyjoy Queen answered flatly, before turning to her sibling and adding, “No offense, baby brother.”

He held up his hands. “None taken.”

Yara took another long sip of wine, before turning back to Sansa. “You love talking politics too much, Red Wolf, and truly, it bores me. I’d almost rather go back to discussing proper field tilling techniques.” And then suddenly, her eyes went wide, a certainly dangerous spark going live in them. “We need to go on an adventure.”

“An adventure?” repeated Sansa, eyebrows raised. 

“Yes, an  _ adventure _ . Anything that involves getting me out of this damned castle and stretching my legs. We Ironborn are a restless people, my sweet Northern queen. We hunger for the open air, the open  _ sea _ —”

“We could go hunting,” piped up Theon helpfully, leaning around his sister. “Out in the Wolfswood.”

Yara slammed an approving hand on the table, rattling the dishes around her. “Yes! Wonderful proposal, Theon! The lot of us can ride out first thing tomorrow.” But Sansa immediately began to wave her hand. 

“Oh, I  _ couldn’t _ —”

“Nonsense! You’re the queen, who can keep you here?” Yara asked incredulously. “And it would do you good to get out of this dreary stone fortress—get some sunshine, get some color on those alabaster cheeks of yours,” continued Yara, giving Sansa’s face a light stroke. This was clearly an argument the Stark queen was not going to win, and the thought of riding out on horseback into the quiet of the wood, away from all her royal engagements…

“I can’t go tomorrow,” Sansa began to concede, “I have an appointment with the lord of Cerwyn and if I try to put him off one more time, he will take  _ deep _ offense.”

“The following day, then?” Sansa nodded her approval, prompting another fervent table slap from Yara. “It’s settled. You see, Theon? And you thought you wouldn’t need your bow for this trip.”

* * *

That night Lyselle had silently helped Sansa out of her stays, freed her red tresses from their braids, stoked her fire and then bid the Queen good night. As Sansa lay in her bed, she stretched her arm out towards the opposite end—she had always slept to one side as it felt oddly indulgent to claim the whole thing for herself. But, in doing so, it only seemed to cast a nightly reminder that her bed was only ever half-full. Sighing, she pulled her hand back towards herself and absently twined a finger into her auburn hair.

She’d hoped to ask Theon to escort her back to the Keep following supper, but, as seemed to be his habit, he excused himself early, leaving her to listen to Yara’s tales of conquest on the high seas (which got more and more outlandish as more and more wine was poured.) There hadn’t been anything particular she’d wanted to say to him, only that she wanted his company. Even in silence, there was something about being close to him that brought a steady relief to her. When they were apart, she’d come to realize, it was as if something was persistently tugging at her ribcage, a feeling that only abated when she found him again.

_ Silly girl _ , came the ugly voice from the back of her mind.  _ His feelings aren’t the same as yours _ .

Sansa silenced the thought. She could live with that, couldn’t she? Surely the dull ache of a love unrequited would fade away with the passage of time? After all, his feelings were still rooted in fondness—he’d said so himself. It was just… different.

Letting out another sigh, Sansa rolled on to her back. The image of Theon, tears sliding down his face, standing before Robb’s grave, came floating into her mind. Was his kindness to Sansa only an act of contrition, a debt to be paid to the sworn brother he betrayed? Or was it to make amends to Sansa herself, for betraying her to their shared tormentor, for standing by while she suffered?

In her heart, she had forgiven him for those acts long ago. They had been the actions of a frightened, shrunken creature named Reek, horribly regretted by the Theon who had emerged. And she of all people knew how viciously Ramsay could twist your thoughts upon themselves, skew your vision, lay perfectly contrived traps—and you’d fall into them every time.

She wondered sometimes if Theon was aware of how many details she knew about his time with Ramsay. He had been an unbearably clever man, but he was still a proud one and more often than not, he could not restrain himself from bragging about his latest exploits with his “plaything.” On his worst nights, he would sometimes re-enact them on his captive wife.

Sansa let out a shaky breath, pushing the memories as far away as she could. It was in this share of pain, this intimate knowledge of a hell others could only dream of, that laid at the heart of her connection to Theon Greyjoy.

But it was more than that. It had to be. It was one thing for the foundation of it to be rooted so, but she refused to let their communion be defined by something so awful, so horrific. She wanted their relationship to be more than that, and she thought— _ hoped _ —that he wanted the same.

After all, he was one of the last remaining shreds of her scattered and torn family. And they  _ were _ family: they’d grown up in the same household, stolen sweets from the same kitchen, been scolded by the same father. In time, she was sure she could come to think of him as her brother. She could forget the taste of his lips, she could forget the soft press of his hand. She could forget. She  _ would _ forget.

But as she drifted off to sleep, in her mind, she could not avoid returning to the godswood, returning to his embrace.

* * *

_ You left me, Sansa. _

It was Margarey’s voice.

_ You left me. Why did you leave me? _

Where was she? Everywhere Sansa turned to look, it was pitch black. Hopelessly, she groped through the darkness, trying to call out for the other woman, but her voice kept catching in her throat.

At last she turned and was met with the bright blaze of the sun. She shielded her eyes against it.

_ “Margaery?”  _ she cried out, but her voice echoed out into nothingness.

And then, out of the sunlight, walked Margaery. She was as beautiful as ever, clad in a diaphanous pink gown, her dark brunette curls falling around her shoulders. Sansa whispered her name and reached out to take her hand.

_ I loved you, and you left me, Sansa. _

Sansa could feel tears streaming down her face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I had to go, Cersei—she would’ve—”

_ I loved you, and you left.  _ Sansa pulled her hand back from Margaery and saw they were slick with blood, blood so dark it was nearly black. When she looked up to Margaery, she and the sunlight were gone, replaced once more with the unbearable darkness.

For a moment, Sansa was alone, an island. Until, out of the nothingness came two pale hands, wrapping around her like white snakes.  _ It’s alright, Sansa,  _ came a voice so much more sinister.  _ I’m here now. _

At first she fought, but the more she struggled, the more she was restrained, until she could barely breathe. Finally, the snakes loosened themselves and from the blackness came a face,  _ his _ face.  _ You’d never leave me, Sansa. You can’t. _

Her mind told her to run, to flee and never look back. But her body had designs of its own, and so her hands reached up to gently hold his face as she pressed her lips to his.  _ You’re a good wife, Sansa,  _ she heard him say and suddenly she felt his touch on her stomach.

The snakes were gone and now she held something in her arms, a swaddled child. Carefully, she pulled the cloth back to look upon its face, but what stared back was so grotesque, so horridly monstrous, that she opened her mouth to let out a scream, but only thick black smoke came out.

And then abruptly she was back in Winterfell, back in her bed. She shot up, clutching her chest, desperately trying to suck in a breath. Inside of her, her heart hammered against her chest, while her nightclothes clung to her back with sweat. The room seemed to rock and swim, as if she were out at sea.

She closed her eyes tightly, covering them with her hands, trying to both calm herself and will the awful images away. But they were too real, too fresh. Hopelessly, she looked over at her nightstand at the vial of milky white liquid. Most of the time, the concoction pulled her into a dreamless sleep, but some nights it trapped her in her dreams. And tonight, she could not go back there.

Anxiously, Sansa ran a hand through her hair. Even the thought of staying in her bed was too much. So, she pushed the blanket of furs from her and swung her feet out of the bed and into her dressing slippers. Grabbing her dressing gown off her chair, she shrugged into it, lit herself a candle, and slipped out into the hall. Her feet padded along in the dim hallway until suddenly, she was at her destination. She raised a hand and rapped lightly on the wooden door.

A sliver of light cut through the corridor as Theon cautiously opened his chamber door. His eyes widened with recognition as he saw his midnight visitor. “Sansa?” he asked, surprised.

“Can I come in?” she pleaded, ignoring the quiver in her voice. Immediately, he stepped aside so she could pass, softly closing the door behind her.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he observed. “Are you alright?”

She covered her face with her hand, trying to suppress the tears she could feel brimming in her eyes. Without a word, Theon took the candle from her hand and set it aside on a nearby table before taking Sansa by the shoulders and gently sitting her on the bed.

“I had the most dreadful nightmare,” she began, feeling embarrassed at hearing the cause of her anxiety said aloud. But, she hoped that maybe speaking of her terrible visions might exorcise them from her mind.

“It was…  _ him _ ,” she pressed on, feeling Theon take a seat beside her. “He’d given me this awful baby but before that, I found him and—and it was as if I  _ wanted _ him and—” she choked on a sob. 

“You must think the worst of me,” she admitted, looking at him through her tears.

“No,” came his quiet reply. “I have the same ones, too.” She saw him swallow. “I’m in Winterfell, except it’s dark and burnt and everywhere I look, there are bodies. But, it’s like I’m looking for  _ him _ , trying to find him…” he trailed off, his eyes burning with sadness and shame. She felt her heart clench and so she reached out and threw her arms around him. 

In response, he drew her close and she remembered her promises to herself from earlier in the evening, that she would let her romantic feelings for this man fade. Without hesitation, she shelved the thought and buried her face in his shoulder. He always smelled of the sea, a scent that brought with it memories of hope and longing. It took her back to King’s Landing, where her only reprieve from the hot, awful stench of the city were the docks. She’d go there with Shae to watch the boats going in and out of the harbor and on so many of those days, she would breathe in the fresh, salty air, and dream that one day she would be on one of those departing boats and that she would be bound for home.

Eventually, Sansa came to her senses, and dutifully pulled away. “I apologize,” she stuttered out. “I’ve woken you in the middle of the night…” she trailed off, realizing not only that Theon had candles burning, but that his bed was still made. Leaning against his chair by the crackling fire was a quiver of arrows, as well as a pair of shears and a whetting stone.

“I don’t mind,” he said with a smile. It was everything Sansa could do not to throw herself back in his arms. Instead, she pushed a strand of red hair off her forehead and made to stand. “I ought to go—” 

“Don’t,” Theon said immediately, before inviting her towards the fire. “That is, stay a while. We haven’t had a chance to properly catch up, since my sister monopolizes you during supper.”

Sansa hesitated. In the back of her mind, she knew it had been a mistake to come here, and it’d be an even greater one to stay. But a quiet voice reminded her that her time with Theon was ever waning away—soon, he would be traveling home, back to Pyke, and gone from her side for who knew how long.

“Alright then,” she agreed, settling into the second chair by the fire. Pleased, Theon went to pour them each a cup of wine from the side table.

“You don’t drink much at supper,” Sansa remarked as he handed her a goblet and settled in across from her.

“You’re just comparing me to Yara,” he laughed. “Nobody drinks much compared to her.” It was true—Sansa felt sure that the Ironborn Queen could drink even the burliest men in Sansa’s service right under the table. “But, I like to keep my wits about me,” he admitted. Sansa nodded and for a moment, they were quiet.

“Tell me about Pyke,” she said at last, taking a sip from her cup. “I’ve still never seen it.”

Theon pondered for a moment, rubbing the short stubble on his chin. “Well,” he started. “It’s very grey. And very wet. And sometimes it’s very windy.” He paused. “That’s sort of a rubbish description, isn’t it?” 

Sansa laughed.

“It’s hard to live there,” he tried again. “The wind blows the sea spray onto the shore, so anything close to it is always getting eaten away by the salt. And it’s always getting blown into your eyes, into your hair, into your clothes. And it rots away at the land, too, which is part of the reason we were raiders in the first place. Sometimes it’s impossible to grow anything there at all.”

“Hopefully the maesters here can help with that,” offered Sansa.

“I hope so,” Theon agreed, pausing to take a drink of wine. “I think Yara worries about it more than she lets on—if we can’t get the fields going and all that.”

“We’ll find a way.” Sansa gave him an encouraging smile that he returned. She liked this version of Theon, warm and at ease. “Were you glad to be back home?”

He gave a little shrug. “It was a bit strange. Like, going somewhere that you thought you’d only seen in a dream. If I’m being honest, Winterfell feels more like home than anything.”

“It is,” Sansa said without hesitation. “That is—you’re welcome here anytime. You’re family, after all. Yara, too, of course.”

Theon laughed over his cup of wine. “Don’t let her hear you say that, you might never be rid of her.” 

Sansa shrugged, looking down into her cup and smiling. “I wouldn’t mind.” 

“Be careful there, Sansa—I think she likes you,” he said slyly.

“Oh, I  _ know _ she likes me,” she retorted easily.

“Keep that up and you might get a marriage proposal before your coronation.” They shared a laugh.

“She’s quite…brazen,” Sansa finally admitted, after a moment. “Does it not… bother anyone—that is, in the Iron Islands, is it more… _ permissible _ —” she struggled for the words, gesturing vaguely with her hand.

“Does it bother anyone that she enjoys the company of women?”

Sansa felt herself flush from Theon’s directness. “Yes.”

Theon shook his head, rubbing his chin thoughtfully again. “Yara’s never been much bothered by what people think or say about her. She lives as herself and I think, deep down, her men respect her for that. Plus,” he added, leaning in. “I’m sure a fair amount of them just enjoy the sight of two women kissing.” Sansa snorted out a laugh but she stared down into her cup, pondering.

“Are you bothered by it?” she asked at last.

“Bothered by Yara?  _ Constantly _ .”

“You know what I mean.”

He settled back into his chair, his face serious again. “No. You love who you love.” And that was that.

Sansa didn’t look up from her cup, nervously running her thumb along the rim of it. “That person I mentioned,” she began, drawing a breath. “When I was telling you about my dress. They were—well, it was—it was a woman. That I was in love with.” 

At last, she raised her eyes to gauge his reaction, but his face remained placid. “You don’t think that’s… odd?”

He seemed to be weighing something in his mind, but what it was, Sansa could not guess. At last he answered. “No, I don’t.” And then, after a moment, “Can I ask who it was?”

“Did you ever know Lady Margaery of House Tyrell?” That did earn a look of honest surprise.

“Ser Loras’ sister? Wasn’t she engaged to Joffrey after you?”

Sansa nodded. “She was… ambitious. To say the least.”

“Tell me about her.” The warmth of his words surprised her. She’d never told anyone about Margaery out of fear of a less than pleasant reaction. But of course, here was Theon, his heart and his ears open. It brought a smile to her face.

“Well.” She searched for her words. “She was… magnetic. Everyone always seemed to be in her orbit, no matter where she was. And when she talked to you, you felt like you were her whole world.” She sighed, nostalgically. “Of course, the other side of it was watching her talk to someone  _ else _ made you terribly jealous. She was sweet and funny and she was one of the few pieces of kindness I found in King’s Landing.” Her tone grew melancholy. “The cruel part was that I had finally found the kind of love that I’d always heard about in the songs, that I’d dreamed about since I was a little girl, but… it just couldn’t be.”

“What happened to her?” asked Theon, his voice soft.

“She underestimated Cersei’s cruelty,” she answered simply. “And for that, Cersei murdered her.” She looked down at her cup again, trying to swallow the feelings of anger and hurt and loss that were welling up inside of her.

“I’m so sorry, Sansa.” He placed a tender hand on her knee, an act of comfort. She looked back up at him. She wasn’t sure what it was that made the pieces suddenly fit together: his lack of judgement at her story, his silent tears at Robb’s grave, the wounded look he’d had anytime Robb had reminded him that he was Greyjoy and not Stark. Before she could stop herself, the question slipped out of her lips.

“Did you love Robb?”

For a moment, his face was blank, obscured. But in his eyes, Sansa could see the truth. And perhaps, Theon knew that.

“Yes,” he answered quietly.

“Did he love you, too?” And at that, a sad, rueful smile that Sansa had never seen before crossed his face.

“Sometimes.”

Realizing the depth at which she had just pried into something so deeply personal and private brought a frantic flush to her cheeks. “I’m sorry—that was—I shouldn’t have—” she stammered out, but Theon silenced her with a silent shake of his head. 

“No, it’s alright,” he soothed her, some of the sadness fading out of his smile. “It’s a relief to admit, after all this time.”

“Does Yara know?”

He shook his head again. “No right way to tell her.”

“She’d understand,” Sansa asserted. “She cares about you so much, you can see it. She was so clearly sick with worry when she came for you.” 

“I’m serious, Sansa.” Theon pointed a finger at her, concern knitting his brow. “If Yara catches you flattering her so, she’s going to try and find a maester to marry the both of you.” His sudden turn of tone brought a hearty laugh out of Sansa.

“To be honest, I’d welcome it,” she admitted, sneaking a quick sip from her cup. “Better your sister than some of the rats lurking around here.”

“Have you had many marriage proposals yet?” Theon asked, his tone too casual, his eyes too focused on the fire.

“Not yet,” Sansa answered, watching the man opposite her carefully. “Of course, I’m sure once there’s a crown properly on my head, all the vipers will come slithering out of their nests.” She didn’t bother keeping the acid out of her voice. 

“A political marriage could be good for you, Sansa,” he stressed, though it sounded as if he was trying to convince himself of the validity of the fact more than anyone else. “There may come a time when you need a strong alliance to solidify your place in the realm.”

She let out a derisive snort. “I’ve had my fill of political marriages. No, thank you.”

“Would you ever wed again?” he asked. “Or should I dash Yara’s dreams now?”

Sansa looked into the fire again, her vision of her snowy wedding from the other night dancing in the flames. “If I do marry again, it won’t be for power or political gain or any of that. I’ll marry for companionship. For love.” Theon nodded, taking a long drink of wine.

“I’m—I’m not even sure if I want children anymore,” she confessed nervously. This revelation earned a pair of raised eyebrows from her companion. “I just—” She clutched her cup, feeling her palms sweat. “I’m not sure if I want to bring children into this world if I can’t improve it.”

“You’ll make this world one worth living in,” Theon told her, his tone serious. “You, Yara, Daenerys—you’ve already improved the lives of your people.” The way he looked at her, the firelight flickering in his eyes. Suddenly, it was hard to catch her breath.

“I hope so,” she replied, taking a swig out of her goblet. “But for now…” she showed her empty cup to Theon. “A tragedy.”

He grinned, that lop-sided grin that Sansa had despised in her youth but was now growing more and more fond of. “That’s at least one problem I can solve,” he chuckled, rising and taking the goblet to refill it.

For a moment, Sansa looked back into the fire thoughtfully, her mind going to their childhood. “Do you remember,” she asked him as he poured, “that time that Arya tried to hide sheep dung in my pillow? But Old Nan caught her and made her muck out the horse stalls for an afternoon?”

Theon had returned with their goblets and passed Sansa hers. “Do you want to know a secret?” 

Sansa took her cup, eyeing him curiously.

“It was actually Bran,” he admitted, before taking a drink.

“No!” she exclaimed in disbelief. “Really?”

He nodded, grinning. “Robb had dared him—well, in truth, Robb and I had  _ both _ dared him—”

“You  _ rotten _ —"

“—and Arya was actually trying to get it  _ out _ of your pillow when Old Nan found her. She took the fall for him.”

“You know I couldn’t get the smell out of my bed for  _ weeks _ ? Much less my hair. I thought I was going to stink like a dung heap for the rest of my life.” Theon laughed without remorse.

“Arya got him back a while later—he’d eaten some seeds from a fig and she told him he was going to grow a whole tree in his stomach. He couldn’t sleep for days after that.”

Sansa giggled over her cup. “We were an awful lot, weren’t we? It’s a miracle that Mother and Father didn’t just pitch us over the battlements and be done with it.”

And so they spent the night, laughing and swapping tales and secrets from their shared childhood, which now felt like it belonged to another lifetime, a million miles away. Through the haze of time and good wine, everything took a new sheen to it: what had once been terrifying moments as children were now the source of much humor. And even though the fire was slowly dying, Sansa felt a warmth growing in her that she hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

When their laughter had finally died down after a particularly raucous re-telling of the time Bran had gotten stuck in the kitchen floo, Sansa glanced out Theon’s chamber window and saw the faintest bit of pink in the sky. “ _ Gods _ ,” she swore, setting down her long empty cup and standing. “It’s almost morning—I’ve talked your ear off all night.”

Theon smiled, standing and setting aside his own cup. “I was glad for your company, so, thank you.”

“It was… nice. To talk,” she demurred, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears and moving towards the door to re-light her candle. As she searched for a match, something on the table caught her eye. Tucked amongst Theon’s things, was a neatly folded square of silk. Without hesitation, Sansa plucked it out and gingerly unfolded it. It was the embroidery she had created for him during his convalescence after the Battle of Winterfell.

She turned to him, holding out the embellished cloth, her eyes glassy. “You kept it,” she breathed.

An easy smile, so similar to Yara’s, crossed his face. “Of course I did. Yara gave it to me after I’d woken up on the journey back to Pyke. Told me I was lucky to have someone like you at my bedside—if it’d been Yara, I’d probably be dead.”

Sansa’s eyes moved over her small, neat stitches; each one had been a silent prayer to any god with an open ear that Theon would survive his wound, that he would wake and she could look into those sea glass depths once more. It seemed at least one entity had heard her desperate pleas.

He came to stand next to her, surveying the work. Her goal had been to give him a sigil, one that didn’t force him to choose between Stark or Greyjoy, but rather, have it embrace him as a champion of both. So, she’d stitched a direwolf and a kraken, both rising triumphantly out of the stormy sea, not at odds but in complement to one another. Together, they flanked a silver arrow, which she’d embellished with tiny abalone shells.

“I had to go to the library at one point,” she confessed. “I couldn’t for the life of me remember what a proper kraken looked like—”

“Sansa—”

“—and I didn’t quite finish the direwolf so he looks a bit more like a misshapen  _ bear _ —”

“ _ Sansa _ ,” he finally cut in. “It’s wonderful. Thank you.” His eyes were filled with gratitude and it brought a flush to her cheekbones. And then suddenly, an idea struck her.

“Let me finish it for you,” she offered. “Then you can take it back to Pyke, properly.”

He hesitated. “Are you sure? I don’t want to put a demand on your time—”

“It won’t take me long,” she promised. “I’m a quick stitch.”

He studied her for a moment, before giving a nod of assent. “Alright,” he conceded. “But don’t let it be an inconvenience.”

She beamed at him, tucking her project away into her robe, before finally turning back to her candle. “Thank you again for the company—I am sorry about the late night.”

“Don’t be,” he said simply, waving his hand. “I hope you have better dreams.”

“I will,” she breathed, resisting the urge to embrace him before she left.

When Lyselle came to her chambers a few hours later, bearing her letters and her morning meal, she was surprised to find her queen still fast asleep. After she gently woke her, she took Sansa by the chin, inspecting her face. “I’ll ask the maester for some more milk of the poppy, shall I? You look like you haven’t slept a wink, Your Grace.”

But Sansa just smiled and gently pushed her hand away.

* * *

The morning of their proposed hunt was cool and crisp. As they rode out from Winterfell and into the Wolfswood, the sun finally escaped from behind a morning cloud bank, so that the forest was filled with speckled light as it shone down through the dense trees. Their party was led by Ser Arthor, Winterfell’s master of arms as well as his squire, joined by Yara and a few Ironborn soldiers, as well as Theon and Sansa. Two of Sansa’s queensguard brought up the rear. Lyselle had offered to come along as well, but Sansa had bid her stay behind. She’d told her a hunt could be a bloody thing, but in truth, she’d wanted to keep prying eyes to a minimum.

Once they entered the forest, they’d taken their horses down to an easy, steady pace. Sansa breathed deep, filling her lungs with the cool, fresh air. There was something freeing about leaving Winterfell and all its associated responsibilities quietly behind. Even being astride a horse was freeing: on her long journey to and from King’s Landing, her guard had absolutely insisted she ride in the safety of the carriage for the duration of the trip. Her Tully looks made her an easily identified target and, with her recent declaration of sovereignty, it was simply too much of a risk.

The hunt had also proven to be a sartorial opportunity for the Northern Queen as well. After her introduction to the Targaryen, she’d been struck by her strong wardrobe choices, but most notably her boldness to wear breeches. Jon had told her that it was always Daenerys’ preference to wear trousers, perhaps because she had spent so much of her life as a bit of a nomad. The look of them paired with a long coat had impressed Sansa, and so she’d designed a set for herself, made from soft, grey woven fabric shot with jet black. For her day to day activities, Sansa still preferred a gown, but to have the option to not be hindered by a dress on horseback was, well, divine.

Ahead of her, Yara was also enjoying the break from supervising discussions of soil samples and proper field rotation, laughing and joking with her men. Despite the early hour of their setting out, Sansa was sure that Yara had already emptied one of the wine flasks.

And then, at Sansa’s side, rode Theon. A quiver full of immaculately clipped arrows hung at his waist, and he wore his bow strung across his chest. Riding tall and confident on his horse, he was the very image of a true Greyjoy. Sansa tried to keep her eyes trained forward, but he was, simply put, very handsome.

She rubbed the leather of the reins in her gloved hands. How desperately she wished it was just the two of them, riding quietly in one another’s company, but she was glad to be with him all the same.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been in these woods,” Theon commented absently, looking at the overhead trees. “I think the last time I was here, I was with Robb—his horse had gotten spooked by a wild turkey and he nearly put an arrow through my foot.” He looked at Sansa sideways, grinning at the memory.

“He wasn’t much of a shot, if I remember,” mused Sansa.

“Oh, he was bloody  _ awful _ ,” laughed Theon. “But he was impossibly fast with a sword. You’d think he was holding nothing more than a reed, he’d slice so quick with it.” It warmed Sansa to hear Theon’s reminiscing about her brother. She didn’t want the memory of Robb to fade away into the reaches of time.

“So, what are we on the prowl for today?” called out Yara, pulling the stopper from her wineskin with her teeth.

“The boars should be out heavy this time of year, Your Grace,” replied Ser Arthor. “I’ve had several men return successful this last moonsturn, so we ought to have good sport.”

“I pray we see nothing,” confessed Sansa under her breath to Theon. “Since the battle, the smell of blood makes my stomach churn.”

“Not a worry, Your Grace. I’m sure Yara will startle off anything within a league of us,” he whispered back. They shared a conspiratorial laugh, earning a glare from the elder Greyjoy, turning around in her saddle. 

“What are you two giggling about back there?”

“Nothing,” rang out their innocent voices in unison, prompting another laugh. Sansa thought she saw Yara smile as she turned back around.

For a while, they rode along in silence. Occasionally, a bird chirped overhead, or a rabbit darted parallel to their path. Sansa would sometimes see Theon watching the tiny prey animals out of the corner of his eye, his hand twitching toward his quiver. She could see he was eager to take a shot, but kept his bow firmly on his back. She wondered if it was out of deference to her, because of her comment at the entrance to the Wolfswood.

“What are your plans once you return to Pyke?” It did Sansa no favors to pretend that Theon’s stay here was anything other than temporary, so it was best to face it head on.

Theon gave a light shrug. “Not entirely sure. Before I came here—for the battle—Yara’d talked about giving me a small command of ships, maybe sail to the Bay of Dragons and help keep the peace, but…” he trailed off and Sansa looked at him curiously.

“What is it?”

He shook his head. “After she brought me back to Pyke, she was adamant I stay in Westeros. After Daenerys took King’s Landing, I’d suggested it might be a good time for me to sail out, but she told me  _ no _ straight away.” His eyes briefly dipped to the reins in his hands. He was struggling to keep his tone light. “I worry sometimes that she—well, that she lost faith in me,” he finished, punctuating it with a weak laugh.

“No, no,” Sansa insisted. “Your sister just worries for you. She’s almost lost you so many times—I’m sure she fears that the next time, she might not get you back.” She worked to keep her voice even, the reality of her words striking too close to home. 

Theon seemed unconvinced. “When Daenerys bid Yara to come here, I offered to stay behind, make sure that the Iron Islands stayed under her control, but she insisted I come along. Wouldn’t hear any argument to the contrary.”

Sansa worked through her response deliberately. “Did you not want to come back here?” She tried not to let Theon’s words be a wound—after all, he had at least a hundred good reasons to never return to the North—the place of his adolescent captivity—ever again.

“It’s not like that,” he said, his smile genuine. “I guess I’m just—just eager to be… useful.” 

She shook her head at him, not quite understanding. He furrowed his brow, rubbing the back of his neck anxiously. “The things I’ve done—they weigh on me, Sansa.” His eyes were distant for a moment, but he continued on. “I need to make things right. I mean, a lifetime of good deeds won’t repair the damage I’ve done, but I need to—to try.”

“I understand,” she breathed quietly. “But— you’ve nearly  _ died _ trying to make amends. When will it be enough?” 

And then that small, sad smile came—so much like the one he wore when she’d asked him about Robb. She felt her chest tighten. “The truth of it, I suppose is that I almost wish I had died that night—I’d certainly been prepared for the possibility—but it would have almost been a— a welcome release—an end—to the burden of carrying all these sins around.” 

She felt her stomach drop hearing his confession. She could think of no worse outcome than him perishing in that cold, dark, frozen wood, and yet he had wished for it. She fixed her eyes on the pommel of her saddle, clutching the reins tight in her hand, doing whatever she could to fight back the emotions boiling within her.

For a while there was only a tense, heavy silence between them. Just as Sansa had begun to open her mouth to voice her retort, Ser Arthor brought their party to a halt with a raise of his hand. He motioned for his companions to dismount, quickly and quietly.

Theon swung off his horse with ease and immediately pulled off his bow, nocking it with an arrow. And like that, he had transformed into a hunter: his eyes were focused and alert and he walked with a deliberate precision, his ears clearly catching sounds that Sansa’s did not hear. 

Ser Arthor exchanged weighted looks with the Ironborn guard and Theon, gesturing off to his left. Whatever silent signal he had shared, they each returned with a nod. “Stay behind me, Sansa,” Theon whispered to her, moving noiselessly ahead. Frustrated, she shelved her retort to him, intent on continuing this conversation once they were riding back towards Winterfell, and fell in line behind him.

Around her, each of the men, as well as Yara, had their weapons drawn and at the ready—most of them with spears, but some of them, like Theon, with bows. The only implement Sansa had ever been properly trained in was the needle, so she had come empty-handed, fearing it would prove more disastrous to be armed than not. She now found herself regretting that decision, as her hands felt too empty and she was certain she’d feel steadier if only she had something to hold on to.

Obeying Theon’s request, she stayed behind him as their party carefully pushed forward, eyes and weapons all making slow, sweeping movements as each member of the party scanned their surroundings. Looking up, Sansa caught sight of Yara, her eyes blazing, clearly enjoying the tense thrill of the hunt.

As they moved into a small clearing, Ser Arthor held up his hand, halting their movement once again. Sansa stopped close by Theon’s shoulder, trying her best not to crowd the careful hunter. Around her, her eyes searched the trees for movement, but saw nothing. And then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Theon tense.

It had all happened so quickly that later, when Sansa was trying to recall the events of the morning, she could not be sure of the order of micro-events that had transpired.

Sansa hadn’t heard the heavy stamping of hooves until just before she saw the boar, angry and frothing, charging from between the trees and making a line straight for her. Later, she’d realized that Theon had heard it first, when he’d tensed by her side. And then three things happened, seemingly all at once and yet they were carved in her memory as distinct, separate moments: she’d heard Theon yell her name, saw him raise his bow, and felt him collide into her shoulder, knocking her out of the way.

After that, everything was black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, Sansa! I hope she will be okay!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the sweet comments and kudos - I read every single one and it always warms my heart!! This is the second to last part, I hope you all are enjoying the journey of these two sweet idiots as they try to work it out. <3 Please be advised that there is mention of past abuse in this chapter, so proceed with caution if you need to. <3 Thank you again and enjoy!

It was dark and cold. Sansa hated the dark and the cold. The wind blew against her cheeks, so icy and frigid, it felt like she was being burned. Her feet struggled through the thick snow—it clung to her boots, making every step heavier than the first. Ahead, she saw a form collapsed on the ground.

_“Theon!”_ she cried out, but the wind blew her words back into her throat. 

When she finally reached him, she collapsed to her knees beside him. She pulled his cold form into her arms, but when she looked at his face, his skin was of such a horrid blue pallor and his eyes were nothing but sunken black holes. She screamed and he evaporated into dust, blown away by the wind.

Sansa’s eyes shot open as she gasped for breath. She struggled to get her arms underneath her, to sit up, lest she choke.

“Easy, easy, Your Grace!” came a frantic, but familiar lilting voice. Suddenly Lyselle’s hands were on her shoulders, trying to gently ease the Northern Queen back down into her bed. Sansa surrendered, falling back on to her pillows, breath finally finding its way back into her chest. She was in her chambers, back at Winterfell. To her right, a bright warm fire crackled in the hearth and to her left, was her dutiful maid. Behind her, through her chamber window, Sansa could see the pitch black of night.

Painfully, she became aware of a throbbing in her head and she gingerly reached up to touch it.

“You took a nasty blow, Your Grace, but nothing worse. You’re lucky Lord Greyjoy is quick as he is.”

“Theon,” she choked out his name before a wave of panic hit her. “Is he alright? Where is he?”

“He’s fine, he’s fine,” soothed her maid. “He insisted the maester tend to you first before he’d take a look—”

“The _maester_ —?” Sansa cried, scrambling to free herself from her bed once more.

“Your Grace, _please_!” Lyselle’s hands were on her again, pinning her back into the bed. And once again, Sansa relented, impotent anxiety welling up in her. “I promised Maester Wolkan that I’d make sure you got plenty of rest—you gave us a frightful scare.” And when Lyselle was satisfied that her queen would make no further attempts to remove herself from her bed, she settled herself back into her chair. 

“What happened? I don’t remember coming back from the wood,” Sansa asked, her hand pressed to her forehead, trying to keep the panic that threatened to seize her whole in check.

“Best as I can piece together, a boar made for you and our Lord Greyjoy cleared you out of the way. _But_ , you struck your head on a tree root as you came down and out you went.” She studied the Queen’s face. “Do you recall any of it, Your Grace?”

“Just bits and pieces,” Sansa answered, closing her eyes for a moment. “How did I get back to the Keep?”

“Lord Greyjoy held you on his horse, rode you back here,” she paused for a moment and Sansa could feel the maid’s eyes on her face. “He carried you all the way up to your chambers—strong one, that one is.” 

The Queen kept her features steady. “Summon him for me. I apparently need to thank him for saving my life.” For a moment, the maid hesitated, caught between her orders from the maester and her orders from her Queen. In the end, she seemed to decide the outcome for disobeying the Queen was the less desirable one and got to her feet. 

“Straight away, Your Grace,” she said with a small curtesy, before slipping out the chamber door.

Sansa let out a heavy sigh and clutched at her furs, hoping it might stop her hands from trembling. She’d been a fool for getting off her horse, much less for getting off her horse without a way to defend herself. If she wanted to rule long enough to see the North recover from the winter, she needed to be far more careful. Perhaps some sword training was in order.

As she tried to steady her breath, she heard footsteps out in the corridor and then Lyselle’s agitated voice. “ _Please_ m’lord, at least let me announce you!” But Theon already had the door open. He stood just inside the room, worry lining his face. His armor was off and his jerkin undone, revealing his disheveled undershirt beneath, open at the neck. At the sight of him, Sansa pushed herself up in bed, the throb in her head returning. 

“Leave us,” Sansa whispered, dismissing her maid. After Lyselle had (hesitantly) closed the chamber door, Theon crossed the room in just a few quick steps and suddenly he was embracing her. She clung to him, wanting to believe he was real and whole and alive, but unable to get her awful vision of him out of her head. At last he released her and sat on the edge of the bed.

“I’m so sorry, Sansa,” he choked out his apology. “I shouldn’t have let you off your horse, I should’ve been more careful—”

“Please,” she interrupted. “I’m alright—are _you_ alright?” she asked, her eyes roving over him, looking for a sign of injury. 

“I’m fine, I had my mail on,” he explained. “So, just a nasty bruise for my efforts.” He pulled up the edge of his undershirt, showing her the contusion he earned from the boar. The skin on his abdomen was red and had started to purple where the wild animal had made an impact with him. 

“Theon, I’m so sorry,” she felt unbidden tears coming. “You could have been wounded or you could have _died_ and—”

“It’s alright, Sansa. It’s alright,” he reassured her. “I got my shot off in time, though—” he gave a sad smile. “I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I almost considered just letting him run me down and be done with it.”

She shook her head, fighting against the tears. “I hate it when you say things like that. I can’t—I just can’t bear the thought—” she stopped herself, unable to finish. The half-hearted smile faded from Theon’s face and his eyes fell away to the floor.

“You’re a good man,” she blurted, hating that all her fears and anxieties were getting the best of her. “The realm needs you— _I_ need you—” she swallowed. She could feel her heart beating hard again, her chest constricting tighter and tighter. Her hands clenched tightly at her bed linens.

“Robb was a good man,” she began, trying to temper calm into her voice. “My father was a good man—and now they’re dead and they’re gone and I just—I can’t bury anymore people I care about. I’ve lost too many people I love, I can’t lose you, too, Theon, I just _can’t_.” The tears were falling now, she couldn’t hold them back anymore. Theon raised his eyes to look at her, so much pain in their sea foam depths. Hesitantly, he reached out a hand to gently touch her face, but Sansa pulled away, unable to bear having him so close when she knew her affections could not be returned.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized again, feeling ashamed. “I know you don’t—you don’t feel the same way that I do. But, I—I just—I can’t lose you, I can’t.” She stopped, too overcome by all her hurt and grief and panic that had finally boiled up to the surface.

For a while, Theon was silent, his eyes in his lap. Until finally he looked up into her tear-stained face. “Do you really think I don’t care about you?”

Sansa took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, and wiped at her face. “I know—I know you think of me as your sister, but my feelings for you—they’re more than that.” She met his gaze, feeling raw and emotional and overwhelmed, but also relieved to have the truth of it laid bare.

And then without warning, he stood up from the bed and walked to the window, looking out of it before drawing his hand down his face. Sansa watched him, a new sadness welling in her heart. _He pities you,_ came the ugly voice from the back of her mind. _He’s searching for a way to let you down gently_. She tried to steel herself for his next words, but for a long while he was silent, his gaze turned intently towards the night sky.

At last he spoke and when he did, his voice was so soft, Sansa almost had to hold her breath to hear him. “Sansa, when I told you that, I—I didn’t mean it.” Sansa closed her eyes, waiting for the final blow, the devastating reveal, that he had never loved her in any form, that the voice in her head had been right, that he had simply pitied her as a poor girl who had lost too much.

“That is to say—I told you that, so that you wouldn’t—” he stumbled, unsure of his words. “Sansa, the truth is, that I _do_ care about you. More than anything or anyone.”

When Sansa opened her eyes, he had turned to look at her again, the beautiful green oceans of his eyes wet with tears. “I don’t understand,” she breathed.

“Everywhere I go, people talk about me, Sansa. They whisper and they laugh and I rise above it. I can’t ask that of you, I can’t put that upon you, too.” 

Deep in her stomach where she had felt such terrible despair a moment ago, she now felt the small flicker of anger. She pushed her bedcovers off of her and stood up from her bed, closing the distance between them. “Do you think I don’t know what it’s like to have everyone whisper terrible things about you? To believe that I had begged Joffrey to kill my father? To think that I _wanted_ to betray my family and marry Tyrion Lannister? To think that I was some sycophant for the very people who were holding me hostage?”

“I don’t mean it like that,” he corrected, his voice wavering. “I just—everyone knows about me, they know that I _can’t_ —that I’m not—that I’m not _whole—_ I can’t cloud you with that same shame—”

Sansa shook her head, her red tresses falling around her shoulders. “I don’t care about that,” she insisted. “I don’t care about _any of it_ —”

“I can’t— _give_ you things that other men could give you, Sansa,” he continued, not able to meet her eyes. “I can’t give you children or—or satisfy you the way a husband should—I can’t, Sansa, I just can’t.”

As the tears escaped his eyes, Sansa finally understood what he meant. She took a step towards him, her bare feet padding along on the cool stone floor. Though her hands still trembled, she dug deep into herself for the courage she so desperately needed. As she came closer to Theon, she slid her hand into his, clasping it tightly. She brought her face close to his, pressing their foreheads together. Her heart thumped hard inside of her chest, causing the pain to return to her head, but she couldn’t care. Her breaths came shallowly as the fingers of her free hands came to rest on his cheek.

She felt a terror deep inside of herself, but it seemed to come from so many sources: the terror of being so close to someone after so many years of agony and violation, resulting in walling herself off from the world; but also the terror of losing this person, this person who knew her pain so intimately, who had almost been taken from her so many times now. 

Sansa could feel his breath on her lips, just as shaky as hers. Perhaps he was just as terrified as her.

He cupped her face, stroking her cheek lightly with his thumb, and then slowly, hesitantly, he pressed his lips into hers. They tasted of salt and Sansa wondered if it was from the sea or from his tears or maybe from both. She kissed him back, her anxiety still not quelled, but still wanting this, wanting him and hoping her desire would be enough to push her past her fears.

She felt his lips part against hers and she did the same, inviting the sweet pressure from his tongue. His movements at first were slow, almost torturous, and she quickly realized just how desperately she had been longing for this, how much her heart had ached at all their time apart, and how she had buried those wants deep into the farthest corner of herself. Now, it all seemed to be crashing out of her, a force of nature.

Overcome, she kissed him deeper, pushing her tongue against his, her course dictated by her need. Her hands found the edges of his jerkin and pushed it off his shoulders, momentarily breaking their embrace. Quickly, he shrugged out of it and let it fall to the floor, his hands then finding her waist, pulling her close. The feeling of his body through the thin cloth of her nightdress sparked a warmth in the pit of Sansa’s stomach, and so she let her hand settle on his hip, the leather of his breeches so supple in her hand.

He pressed on, kissing her deeply, his tongue moving over her own, over her lips. Her stomach was a mix of anxiety and need and in this moment, her need won out. She pressed her hips into his own, feeling the laces of his breeches through the cotton of her gown. It caused him to break their kiss as a soft moan escaped his lips, and allowed Sansa a moment to try the impossible task of catching her breath. When his lips returned to her, they sought out the silky skin of her neck. Sansa let out a moan of her own, her hand leaving Theon’s hair to steady herself against the wall.

His lips trailed up from her neck, finding her tender earlobe, and then back down again. The sensation elicited a verbal reaction from Sansa, encouraging Theon to press on, his lips more vigorous. His hand caressed her waist before it moved over her abdomen and to her breast, massaging it softly through her gown. Sansa bit her lip, feeling a sensation budding between her thighs. In the back of her mind, a voice nagged at her to slow down, to stop, but she feared if she stopped, she might lose all her courage. Nervously, she let her hand drift up from Theon’s hip, dragging her fingers along the waistband of his breeches.

Automatically, he caught her wrist. The suddenness of it startled her and for a moment, the fear in her grew. But he only gave his head a small shake, and Sansa knew that he had set a hard limit. As quick as he had grasped her, he released her, and pressed a kiss under her jaw, then her neck and across her chest. He continued placing kisses over her nightgown, between her breasts, and down her stomach. Sansa forced a breath through her nose, trying to ward off the feeling of light-headedness that was threatening to overcome her.

Taking a handful of Theon’s shirt, she pulled him with her to the bed. When she felt the edge of the frame against the back of her knees, she fell against it into the soft furs, her auburn hair spreading out around her. He bent over her, bracing himself with a hand on either side of her, leaning down to lay passionate kisses on her mouth before once again moving down along her form, at last pressing his lips against the fabric of her nightdress and into the heat between her legs.

Sansa let out a shaky sigh, her hands running through his sandy hair. At the edge of her bed, Theon kneeled down before her. Softly, he ran his hands up from her ankles and along her calves, pushing the fabric of her gown up over her knees.

Once again, the tightness returned to Sansa’s chest, like a hand had clenched around her heart. She fixed her eyes on the ceiling, trying to breathe through the tension that was coming over her body. Unbidden, visions came flooding back to her of the last time she had been like this: flat on her back, Ramsey’s black gloved hands gripping her thighs. She shut her eyes tight, struggling to push the awful thoughts of the past away and keep her mind firmly in the present.

Below her, Theon laid kisses on her shins and up unto her knees. He paused, gently pushing the fabric of her gown further up, Sansa lifting her hips to accommodate him. She spread her fingers out into the soft furs, trying to keep herself relaxed, as she felt Theon’s hands gingerly push her knees apart. She hadn’t realized just how tightly she’d been clenching them together, and forced herself to let him part them. As his lips touched her newly revealed skin, she wondered if he could see the faint, white scars that crossed along her skin. 

A heat continued to burn in the pit of her stomach, as she felt her need throb between her legs. But deep within her, all her desire was tinted with dark dread. She had spent so many nights like, tears running silent down her face, trying to keep as still as possible because it was so much worse to react, to fight.

Between her heightening pleasure and her flood of fear, it was an effort to keep her breath even, her heart steady. She clutched anxiously at the furs beneath her, not wanting to give in to the painful memories that danced at the edge of her mind, as Theon advanced towards where she both burned for him and was too afraid to let him venture.

But before she knew it, her hard, heavy breaths were turning to sobs, as her stomach clenched in pain. She pressed the back of her hand across her face, biting her lip to quiet herself, but it was no use.

“ _Stop, stop, stop,_ ” came her ragged whisper and at once, Theon was beside her. She felt him put a knee on the bed and lean over her, but she kept her eyes tightly shut. She was too afraid to look at him, too afraid to see the disappointment in his eyes.

“Sansa, _Sansa_.” With his gentle voice, he was trying to call her back, call her out of the terror of the past. Slowly, she pulled her hand away from her face. It was wet and she realized that at some point, she had started crying again. Shame flooded over her. She opened her eyes to look up at Theon, but there was not the disappointment or disgust she feared, only frightened concern. 

Sitting herself up, she tugged her nightgown back over herself. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her head hanging low. She wrapped her arms around herself, wondering if this was to be her fate, to fear the touch of strangers and loved ones alike. “It’s too much,” she whispered, trying to choke her own words out over her sobs. “I’m ruined—I can’t—” But she couldn’t continue. 

“Can I touch you?” he asked softly. She nodded her consent and soon she felt his arms around her: strong, comforting, and understanding. He buried his face in her hair and she sought solace in the steady rhythm of his breathing. Her hands felt so limp and feeble but nonetheless she clung to the worn fabric of Theon’s shirt, like an overboard sailor clinging to a rock in a turbulent sea.

She felt him touch her hair, his fingers making long, soft strokes. They stayed there together for a long time as the dread and fear and anxiety slowly drained out of Sansa, replaced only by exhaustion and a lingering sadness. At last, he kissed the top of her head and sat down beside her on the bed, knitting his hand into hers.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, unsure of what else to say. But he shook his head at her. 

“You have nothing to apologize for. I’m the one that ought to be sorry—I moved too fast—” She could see him swallow, the weight of it all sagging his shoulders.

“No, no,” she promised him, taking his face into her free hand and meeting his gaze directly. “I wanted to—I really did—it was just…” she trailed off.

“Too much,” he finished for her. She nodded, dropping her hand from his cheek.

He was quiet for a moment, his eyes like stormy seas, and Sansa wondered what thoughts were held in there. Finally, he asked her, “Do you want me to go?”

“No,” she said immediately. The thought of being alone in her bed with only her dark memories for company filled her with uneasiness. “Stay with me tonight.” It wasn’t a command or a beg, just an expression of need from one injured soul to another. He could refuse, but she knew he wouldn’t.

“In your bed?” he clarified. He was searching for her boundaries, Sansa knew, in order to avoid another misstep. She wondered if she needed to be handled with kid gloves from now on. It was a thought she did not relish.

While Theon got up to blow out the few lit candles in her chamber, Sansa slid herself underneath the fur covers of her bed. As she propped her head up on her hand to watch Theon sit and remove his boots, it dawned on her that for all the strange places she had been in her life, she had never properly shared a bed with someone. She and Margaery had their moonlit visits, but they had never been able to fall asleep together, something Sansa had always regretted—it was too much of a risk, Margaery always insisted. _Though, no one ever suspects anything untoward when it’s two women,_ she’d told Sansa with a wink. Tyrion had never once entered the same bed as her, choosing instead to pass out drunk on the lounging furniture. And Ramsay never stayed—she’d told herself it was because he was afraid she might kill him in his sleep, but in truth, she was convinced that he simply never slept.

Theon set his boots beside the chair at Sansa’s desk before crossing over to the bed. He waited outside of it, watching her face. His hesitation prompted Sansa to give the sheets an inviting pat, while she summoned up an encouraging smile. He returned the look before pulling up the covers and slipping in next to her. They laid facing each other, only the light from the dying fire dimly illuminating each other’s features.

“Will you kiss me?” she asked him quietly. She didn’t know where the desire had come from, only that she didn’t want this evening to end on such a grim note. He obliged, lifting his head to hers, and placing a chaste kiss on her lips. When they parted, he drew her close, and soon, they both fell asleep.

* * *

That night Sansa dreamed only of black nothingness. In the vast, empty void, she heard herself screaming. Repeatedly, she tried to silence herself, but even with her hands over her mouth, the scream continued. When she finally woke, she realized that it was not her scream she was hearing, but Theon’s.

Quickly, she sat up and gently shook his shoulder, called his name. As he lay there with his eyes screwed tightly shut, his yells were indistinct, but one word Sansa heard over and over again: _no_.

“ _Theon,_ ” she whispered at him and finally, his eyes shot open. They were pale and disconnected, and they darted back and forth wildly, much like they did when he was trapped inside of Reek. He continued muttering indistinctly but with such fear, so, with a tender hand Sansa stroked his curls, trying to soothe him.

“It’s alright, you’re safe,” she assured him, but his terror was too great. Finally, she took his face between her hands, as she had done the last time she tried to banish Reek and bring forth Theon once more. She leveled her Tully blue eyes directly into his own. “He’s dead,” she reminded him. “I fed him to his dogs. He’s gone. Forever.”

This, at last, was what broke through to him. His brow furrowed and tears welled into his eyes and he clung to Sansa like a lifeline. Gently, she held him, until at last, they both fell away to sleep.

* * *

  
  


When Sansa’s eyes next fluttered open, it was to daylight instead of moonlight. Groggily, she sat up, rubbing at her temple, until she realized that she was now alone in her bed. She pushed a mass of auburn waves off her face, and then from behind her she heard a quiet, “Good morning.”

Shifting to turn around, she saw Theon sitting in the chair at her desk, having just finished pulling on his boots.

“Are you leaving?” she asked, though she hated how small her voice sounded. He gave a small nod, coming to sit on the edge of the bed next to her.

“Your lady’s maid will probably be here soon and I shouldn’t let her find me,” he explained with a small smile, but Sansa could see that the edges of it were cracked with a melancholy.

“I told you, I don’t care about that,” she blurted, but hearing her words aloud, they sounded like that of a petulant child and not of the Queen of the North. Of course, at this moment, she did not feel particularly queen-like.

“ _I_ care,” Theon insisted, and his words from last night came back into Sansa’s mind. She’d wanted to show him that she didn’t care about what he did or didn’t have or what he thought he could or couldn’t give her. She wanted him, just as he was. But, in her efforts to bring them closer together, she felt as though she had only succeeded in driving him further away. 

She reached out and took his hand. “You don’t have to go,” she tried one last time.

“But I do.”

She nodded quietly, accepting her defeat. He gave her hand a tight squeeze before leaning over and pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. And where his lips met her skin, she burned.

He picked his jerkin up from the floor where it had lain as a casualty of their evening together and slid it on before crossing to her chamber door and delicately pulling it open. As he went out, he gave her one last warm gaze. Sansa struggled to return it.

And when he was gone, she pulled her knees up to her chest, laid down her head and sat alone in her bed in the cold silence.

* * *

After Theon’s departure, Sansa realized she had fallen asleep—Lyselle’s tell-tale knock came at her door, and suddenly her eyes were blinking open and she was pushing herself back up in bed. For a moment, she wondered if the previous night had been some strange dream and that her last awakening had only been from one dream into the next. But as she looked over to the pillow next to hers, she saw its hollow groove from where Theon had slept and her doubts were gone. Before admitting her maid, Sansa turned the pillow over.

Lyselle had brought not only her regular bearings of herbal tea with a bit of warm bread and honey, but this morning she brought Maester Wolkan with her as well, to inspect her injury. Sansa found all of this quite ridiculous and communicated her thoughts as such.

When the maester had suggested she spend the day resting in bed, she asked him if he would’ve suggested the same should her lord father had been injured in a similar fashion. Not waiting for an answer, she thanked him for his care, dismissed him and asked Lyselle to begin laying out her clothes for the day.

With her hair brushed and braided and her leather bodice tightly laced, Sansa began her slow trudge from the Keep to the Great Hall. She kept her head high and her back straight, but in truth, she wanted nothing more than to heed the Maester’s advice, stay in bed, and let the world pass her by. But there could be no time for that—today she had opened Winterfell for audiences with her people and she could not send away the smallfolk who had traveled such long distances to lay their troubles at her feet.

Every day that she had spent at the mercy of Cersei Lannister, she had grown more determined to be a kind ruler, a merciful ruler—everything that Cersei was not. And as much as she anguished inside, she would set that pain aside and give herself fully to the needs of the people she had sworn to protect. And, perhaps selfishly, she was grateful for the opportunity to turn her attention to something wholly outside herself.

But, as the day wore on and her fatigue plagued her more and more, she found her thoughts drifting back to Theon. They had parted on such uncertain terms and it weighed on her more than she wanted to admit. So far their reunion since fleeing the Boltons had been plagued by missteps and doubt as she struggled to come to terms with, well, everything.

Her time spent as a prisoner with her various captors had changed her, molded her—in some cases for the better, but in other cases, certainly for the worst. She’d kept her eyes open, watching and learning, but some lessons she found she wished she could un-learn and that’s what haunted her. Was she forever doomed to be afraid? To be closed off? To hold anyone she loved at an arm’s length?

She’d wanted to be intimate with Theon; she’d wanted his touch, craved it. But in her heart, she feared that perhaps she was too scarred, too broken to ever be close to him. It was a hedgehog’s dilemma—the closer they got, the more they were guaranteed to hurt each other. Was this Ramsay’s lasting legacy, his final blow? That he had laid the seeds for Theon and Sansa to be bound together in a shared pain, yet it was this shared pain that also drove them apart? The thought of it clouded her heart with sorrow.

And what of Theon? He’d wanted her, too—hadn’t he? Or had she, by her forwardness, pressured him into their congress? Had he only been seeking to please her, when in truth, he was injuring himself in the process? He’d told her he had been feigning distance to protect her and to shield her from public shame, but what if the opposite was true? Perhaps he’d been holding her at a distance to keep himself safe from the agony of intimacy. In a flush of embarrassment, she thought of the attempt she’d made at his laces and how quickly he’d caught her hand. She buried the thought.

At long last, the steward closed the door to the Great Hall, bringing an end to the long procession of smallfolk coming and begging favor of their new northern queen. Sansa was, in a word, exhausted. But nonetheless, she pushed herself out of her chair and carried herself as well as she could back to her room in the Keep, where she promptly collapsed onto the bed.

At nightfall, she summoned her strength and returned to the Hall for supper. She was eager to see Theon, but also filled with trepidation at the prospect. She soothed her anxiety by reminding herself that it was better to know where they stood, even if where they stood was, well, apart. If nothing else, she could look forward to Yara certainly brightening the mood with her raucous jokes and infectious laughter. She always seemed capable of luring Theon out of his more somber moods. As the Great Hall entered her view, she was beginning to feel more optimistic about her evening meal.

When she entered the great room, the meal was already well underway, with the many fireplaces lining the hall burning bright. However, as Sansa approached the dais, she realized with a sink of disappointment that the Greyjoy siblings were absent. Yara’s captain made apologies for them, citing their exhaustion from the excitement of the hunt the day before. Sansa forced a smile, asked him to pass on her well wishes, and ate her supper as quick as she could, before excusing herself back to her chambers. Once there, she undressed, slipped into bed, and prayed for sleep to take her quickly.

* * *

The following day, after a busy morning trying to broker a peace deal between two of her more needy Northern lords, who were currently embroiled in a bitter feud over a grazing overlook for their respective sheep, Sansa had returned to her chambers for her midday meal of brown bread, cheese, and honey. Just as she had carefully sliced off the first thin cut of cheese, however, there was a timid knock at her door. She hesitated for a moment, wanting nothing but a few solitary moments of peace, but ultimately decided it would better to simply address whatever it might be.

“Enter,” she called, setting down her food, and the head of one of her young messengers appeared in the doorway. He gave a quick, awkward bow and stared at her blankly, almost as if he had forgotten why he came in the first place.

“Do you have a message?” she urged him, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice. She’d had too many ill-slept nights as of late and it was getting more difficult to hide it.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he blurted, the anxiety in his face growing. “H-Her Grace—that is, she asked _Your_ Grace if—er—Her Grace’s—”

“Does Yara Greyjoy wish to see me?” cut in Sansa, trying to end the young man’s agony. He nodded quickly.

“And where is she?”

He pointed off to his left. “In the Library Tower. In the war room.” Sansa ignored the fact that he was pointing the wrong way.

“I’ll be there at once,” she said, dismissing him. As he closed the door, he looked relieved that the interaction was over. Sansa felt the same.

Briefly, she stared at her cheese, anxiety clutching at her chest. Surely if it was a personal matter that Yara was wanting to discuss, she would simply visit Sansa in her chambers. Instead, she’d summoned her to the War Room, which surely meant there was a business matter at hand. Using this assumption to quiet her worry, she stood, adjusted her skirts, and began the walk over to the tower.

When she came through the door, Yara was bent over a large map, flanked by two of her captains. They were each pointing out something for their Queen, who studied the large piece of leather intently, until she caught sight of Sansa and straightened, a broad smile coming over her face.

“There she is, my Red Wolf,” she announced at Sansa’s entrance. Sansa smiled, her chest swelling a bit—she was beginning to enjoy the nickname from Yara. “Wonderful news, Your Grace,” she continued, beckoning Sansa to join her at the table. “I had word this morning from out west—our Ironborn have been successful in drying up this little rebellion of yours. They’ve driven out the vast majority of these Brothers of the Red Hand—or whatever the hell it is they call themselves. And,” she added, relatively unconcerned, “mostly without incident.”

“Mostly?” Sansa asked, an eyebrow raised.

Yara shrugged. “Some of my men are perhaps a little more… excitable than others. They’ll be spoken to.” Sansa frowned for a moment, before deciding it best to let Yara deal with her own people as she saw fit.

“Now,” the Greyjoy continued, circling a portion of the map with her finger. “We’ve had ravens telling us that your little would-be riot-raisers have begun fleeing into this area, so I’ve been discussing with Kenning and Harlaw here about how best to weed out the last of this annoyance, and perhaps we can get your kingdom back in hand.”

“I’m eager to hear your thoughts,” Sansa said warmly. 

“Before that, I have something I require _your_ thoughts on, Your Grace,” Yara said, her expression taking that mischievous turn it sometimes took, as she waved her men off. They each gave a quick nod, before striding out of the chamber, closing the door behind them. Sansa watched them go, before turning back to Yara, the anxiety she had smothered earlier reigniting.

Almost immediately, Yara burst out laughing, which only served to confuse Sansa. The Ironborn Queen clapped a hand on Sansa’s shoulder, as she struggled to stifle her laughter. “Don’t look so worried, Red Wolf! Though, truly, your expression was priceless.”

Yara settled herself in a nearby chair and gestured at Sansa to do the same across from her. “I am sure you know what I’m about to ask you.”

Sansa shook her head, hoping her thin smile did not betray her less-than-composed interior. “I can assure you, Your Grace, I do not.”

Yara looked at the Northern Queen and gave a wistful sigh, propping her elbow up on the arm of the chair and resting her chin in her hand. “Still so formal, even after all this time together. You guard yourself well, Red Wolf.” Sansa clenched her hands together, trying to stymy the nerves that were quickly overtaking her.

“To the point, then,” Yara continued, settling back into her chair and eyeing Sansa directly. “What’s going on between you and my brother?”

The directness of the question nearly knocked the wind out of Sansa, though she assumed that had partially been Yara’s intent. Still, she struggled to keep her smooth porcelain mask tightly in place.

“Theon—your brother—he’s saved my life—and more than once now. I owe him a debt—” she sputtered, knowing how pitifully she was failing at keeping up the pretense.

“Ah,” Yara uttered, standing and moving over to the other side of the table, where a decanter of wine and its accompanying cups sat. “We’ll be needing a little something, I see.” And she proceeded to pour two hearty cups and brought them back, pushing one into Sansa’s startled hands.

“Alright, let’s try again, shall we?” said Yara, as she took her seat again and pointed a finger from her cup-bearing hand at Sansa. “First, drink.” Sansa hesitated for a moment before deciding the better of it, praying perhaps for a bit of liquid courage as she took a long sip of the wine. “Now one more time: what’s going on between you and my brother?”

Sansa swallowed, trying to pick her words—any words, really. She opened her mouth to speak, but found herself at a loss and promptly closed it.

Yara chuckled. As always, she was clearly enjoying herself. She rubbed at her chin—the same way Theon so often did, which only served to further rattle Sansa—before continuing. “Clearly we need to come at this differently. You have siblings, don’t you?”

Sansa gave a wordless nod, her cup clutched in her lap.

“So, you understand. When you have younger siblings, you look after them. You practically help raise them, so it’s only natural to worry for them. And Theon’s not just my baby brother, he’s my last brother—did you know that?”

Again, Sansa nodded. “You had two elder brothers, Rodrik and Maron.”

Yara lifted her eyebrows, impressed. “A well-bred girl knows her Houses.” Indeed, Sansa did—Septa Mordane had made her and Arya study the family trees of all the Great Houses, though, Sansa declined to mention how the septa had also repeatedly referred to the Greyjoys as treasonous traitors that weren’t to be trusted.

“They’re gone now, with my mother and my father, too. And Theon,” Yara drew a breath. “He’s all I have left now. So you understand that I’m very… protective of him.”

Nervously, Sansa rotated her cup in her hands before taking another drink. What had Theon told his sister? Certainly he hadn’t told her about the— _events_ that had transpired between them? Had Yara brought her here to scold her? Threaten her? Was this alliance about to fall apart before her very eyes? Was she going to have to explain all this to Jon and the Targaryen? Her thoughts were swirling so fast, it gave her vertigo.

Perhaps Yara sensed the trepidation in Sansa because she bent forward, resting her forearms on her knees, clearly trying to assume a more casual posture. “I want Theon to be happy and I think,” she began slowly, “that being here makes him happy.” She watched Sansa for a reaction, but the Northern Queen kept her face impassable, her eyes immutable. Yara rubbed at her forehead.

“When I came to Winterfell, I admit, I thought this would be a bit easier.”

Sansa furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?”

Yara laughed an almost helpless laugh. “You really mean to tell me that you don’t understand why I sailed over here?”

“Daenerys Targaryen commanded you,” Sansa tried. “We’re rebuilding the rift between our Houses—”

“Yes, yes, and I’m enjoying every moment of my study of agriculture,” Yara interrupted, waving her hand and leaning back in her chair. “That’s all well and good, but the truth is, I’ve brought Theon across the sea with the idea of… settling him here. With you.”

Sansa studied Yara carefully. “Theon told me that you were going to give him a command—that you were going to send him to Essos. But you changed your mind. He was worried you lost faith in him.”

“Lost faith in him?” Yara repeated, incredulous. “ _No_ , I decided that I didn’t care to ship him off to the edge of a map, not when I ought to bring him here.”

“Why?”

“When I came to Winterfell to retrieve my brother, I saw that look in your eyes.” Sansa darted her gaze away, shifting in her chair. “Look, my brother has been through hell. He’s done terrible things—I won’t try to deny that—but he’s a better man than he was. I’m not asking you to take him as a husband or anything of that sort—put him in your Queensguard, or keep him as an advisor. He has a good head for battle; you could benefit from his counsel.”

“It’s not that easy,” Sansa replied quietly.

Yara appraised her for a moment. “I know you two are going through… something… but certainly it’s nothing that some good Dornish wine couldn’t solve?”

“He’s devoted to you, he won’t just leave you.”

Yara took another swig of her drink. “You leave that bit to me. But, think about it. For both your sakes.” And so she stood and left Sansa to her thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! I'll try to get our dramatic conclusion posted soon. <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this is it! Big finale. I sincerely hope you all have enjoyed this little journey. <3 This is certainly not the greatest thing I've ever written, but I still feel quite accomplished having finished it. <3 Thank you again and please enjoy!

Once again, Theon was not to be found at supper. Sansa was beginning to wonder if she would ever see him again, or if he might quietly slip out of Winterfell under the cover of night and return to the Iron Islands, lost to her forever. She and Yara did not speak of his absence nor of their conversation earlier in the day. Instead, they exchanged the dark stories told to them in their childhoods by their respective caretakers.

“Her name was Old Nan,” Sansa was explaining after a hearty drink of wine. “But I’m almost certain she was Old Nan even when my  _ father _ was a child.”

Yara snorted in disbelief.

“She was ancient, which gave all of her terrifying stories a certain amount of legitimacy. You couldn’t simply tell yourself that something was long ago, so it was impossible for it to be true. Because Old Nan insisted she was there and, well—it was hard to doubt her.” Sansa let out a nostalgic laugh. “I’m still unsure why my father and mother looked at this woman and thought,  _ ‘yes, here is the ideal person to watch over our young children. _ ’”

Yara shrugged, a bit of wine spilling from her cup. “Perhaps they looked at her and thought, _ ‘here is a woman who has seen everything and fears nothing _ .’ A good quality for someone charged with the rearing of children.”

A smile spread across Sansa’s face. “It’s true, we were all a bit of a terror.” She looked down into her goblet, thinking of her and Theon’s exchange of childhood pranks some nights ago and the dark cloud that may have temporarily lifted from her heart rolled back over it. Yara noticed Sansa’s change of expression and eagerly waved Dynah over.

“More wine,” she mouthed at the young woman and the cupbearer quickly obliged.

And so they spent the rest of the night, exchanging laughs and barbs while Sansa endeavored to drown her problems at the bottom of her cup.

She stumbled back to the Keep that night, her arm draped over Yara’s shoulders to steady herself. After making it to the top of the staircase, which seemed at least three times as tall as it normally did, they pushed in through the door to Sansa’s chamber, where Yara unceremoniously dumped the Northern Queen onto the bed. 

“Do all you Northerners hold your drink so poorly?” asked Yara, as she pulled the boots off her companion. 

“No, just me,” came Sansa’s reply from where she lay prone on her bed. Yara couldn’t help but laugh, as she lifted Sansa’s now shoe-less feet onto the bed.

“Don’t worry, Red Wolf. Your secret’s safe with me.” 

And with Sansa safely tucked away and Yara’s duty done, she had turned to go, until the other woman’s voice stopped her.

“You’re right about me.”

Yara cocked her little half grin, her hand on her hip. “And in what way, exactly?” she asked.

Sansa’s eyes were closed, the wine already slipping her away to slumber, but she answered, “About how I feel towards your brother.” And then, just like that, she was gone to sleep.

Yara’s smile softened. “Glad you finally figured it out, my little Red Wolf.” And she slipped out into the dark hall.

* * *

When Lyselle came to wake her queen in the morning, she was surprised to find her still in her dress from the previous evening, her fur shawl abandoned by the side of the bed, her breathing heavy and regular. Rather than wake her queen, the maid stole back to the kitchens and obtained some cured meats and a cup of barley tea. Clearly, her queen was in need of a heartier breakfast than normal.

Sansa was grateful for it. She was also grateful that her maid asked no questions about her state of dress.

The Northern Queen spent her morning anxiously attempting to hurry through her several appointments, which had culminated in walking away from Lord Hargreeves mid sentence, an insult that she would surely pay for later. However, she had firmly resolved that today she would find Theon Greyjoy and put to rest the uncertainty between them.

The last obstacle standing in her way was the final fitting of her new breastplate that she was to debut at her coronation. And so she stood in the Winterfell armory, nervously tapping her finger on her thigh as the master armorer held the piece up to his queen, studied it, then furrowed his brow, before taking it back to his anvil to make a miniscule adjustment. She did not want to offend the artisan but he had repeated this process a painstaking number of times and Sansa was beginning to fear that if she had to stand here a moment longer, she might lose her nerve to confront Theon completely.

“Are we—are we quite satisfied, Ser?” asked Sansa through gritted teeth as he held the plate up to her for what felt like the hundredth time. He narrowed his eyes at the formed metal, wriggling his nose over his great bushy moustache. Sansa felt like she might scream.

“Aye. I think that’ll do, Your Grace,” he rasped at his Queen. “I’ll get her polished up for you.” Sansa gave a sigh of relief.

As she strode out of the musky air of the armory, she directed her feet towards the Great Keep, intending to begin her search for Theon in his chambers. However, as she crossed through the yard, she caught a familiar form out of the corner of her eye. Tucked away on the far end of the open area, just under the eaves, stood the Ironborn she sought. He had his bow in hand, drawn and preparing to take a shot at a target a few stones’ throws away. The great round mark was already full of several arrows, all clustered tightly around the center.

Sansa took a deep breath, and made her way towards him. As she got closer, she saw that he had one eye closed in careful concentration, the string of the bow held tight to his cheek. 

“You always were a good shot,” she commented, stopping just a little distance from him. The sound of her voice clearly surprised him and he loosed the arrow awkwardly, its tip planting itself on the edge of the mark. 

He lowered his bow, looking down with a self-deprecating smirk. “And you seem to be good at keeping me off-balance.”

“Apologies, my lord,” offered Sansa, biting back her smile.

“And what can I do for you, Your Grace?” asked Theon, striding over to the target to retrieve his arrows.

“I was hoping you might join me for a… walk,” she asked quietly, following after him.

“A walk,” he mused, pulling out the arrows one by one.

“Yes,” she continued, trying not to wring her hands too hard. “I—I haven’t been able to enjoy much of your company as of late, so I thought we might—talk.”

He nodded slowly, returning the arrows to their quiver and setting them aside with his bow. “Alright then,” he agreed, looking up at her with the warmth of the sun. “Let’s take a walk.”

And so they went, side by side, and soon enough found themselves strolling under the ancient stone archway that marked the entrance to the godswood. They continued on, deeper and deeper into the wash of tall trees. The sun was slowly dipping towards the horizon, and its light filtered through the red leaves of the heart tree made the overhead canopy look as though it was on fire. It gave the godswood, already a mysterious place, an other-worldly quality.

They approached the old, massive weirwood and came to a stop beneath its widespread branches. Sansa leaned against its large trunk, looking up into the illuminated leaves above. Theon hovered just out of arm’s reach, his hand resting on a low branch, in her orbit but nonetheless at a distance.

“Where have you been?” Sansa asked quietly, her eyes still cast upward.

“Thinking,” he answered simply. She could feel his eyes on her face.

“About what?” 

“You, mostly.” Out of the corner of her eye, she could see his lips pulling into a smile. She took a deep breath, her gaze settling on the dark pool before her.

“I owe you an apology, Sansa,” he admitted. “I needed some time to—set myself right again, sort a few things out. But, I shouldn’t have disappeared.”

She dropped her head to look at him. His smile had faded, replaced only with earnest sincerity. “I accept your apology,” she acknowledged. “What were you thinking about me?”

“About how important you are,” he said without hesitation. “And how I’ve been acting like a prize fool ever since I’ve gotten here.” The unfeigned tone of his voice struck such a chord in her heart. She bit her lip and turned her eyes back to the smooth glassy surface of the pool.

He took a few steps towards her, his hand gliding along the white spotted branch, his footsteps muted on the damp grass. Sansa took a long breath in through her nose, her chest rising. There was something about the closeness of him—at once it soothed her and at once it made a thousand wings beat in her chest. 

“I shouldn’t have lied to you, Sansa.” She closed her eyes at hearing her name on his lips. “I just—I thought I was protecting you. I thought I was protecting myself, but… I was wrong. And the truth is,” she turned to look at him, and saw his hand tighten on the branch. “That day in the wood—after we escaped—when I rode away from you, it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done and not a day has gone by when I haven’t thought of you.”

In vain, Sansa tried to swallow the emotions that were rising in her throat. Could it be true, that every night she laid awake in Castle Black or Winterfell or whatever war camp she’d found herself in, thinking of Theon Greyjoy, wondering if he was safe and alive and well, that, a thousand leagues away, he was thinking the same of her? Could it be that all the feelings she had held in her heart and dismissed as silly and unrequited were in fact wholly shared and returned? 

“I’ve prayed so many times to find a way back to you,” he continued, his sea glass eyes filled with stormy emotion. “But now that I’m here, I’m afraid I’ve ruined things beyond repair and Sansa, I just—I understand—”

“You haven’t ruined anything,” Sansa breathed, fighting against the tightness in her chest. “All I’ve wanted—all I want—” She struggled to find the words, to give voice to the swirl of emotions that were bubbling up inside of her.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she said at last, her hand curling into a fist to try and steady herself. “After the battle, when I found you—I thought you were gone and it was—” she shook her head, unable to go back to that moment. “You have to promise me that you’ll stop throwing yourself into harm’s way. I’ve already lost too many people I care about and I can’t bear the thought of losing you, too.”

He came closer, lacing his fingers into hers. “I promise, Sansa,” he whispered as he met her gaze, his eyes soft but stalwart.

“And, I’m sorry, too—” she stuttered out, her eyes resting on her feet. “I’m sorry about the other night—” But he wouldn’t hear it.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he insisted. “I just hope—I hope that I didn’t hurt you.”

She shook her head, soft waves of red rippling over her shoulders. “You couldn’t hurt me,” she acknowledged quietly. “I was afraid, but—” she raised her eyes to him again, her Tully blues serious and unflinching, and took a steady step towards him, the distance between them closed. “I’m tired of being afraid. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life controlled by my fear.”

“Then don’t.”

And with that, she leaned forward, her lips finding his.

They had kissed now so many times before, but this was different. There was no urgency, no fear that she might lose her boldness or that her affections might not be returned; instead, it was simply an expression of closeness, companionship, and desire. She felt his hand tighten around her own and his other come up to cradle her cheek, and at that, a calm peace settled over her heart.

When they finally broke apart, Sansa looked deep into Theon’s eyes and he into hers. Overhead, the branches swayed in the wind, the rustling of the leaves like quiet whispers. In that moment, in the private seclusion of the godswood, it felt to Sansa as if she and Theon might be the only people on the whole continent of Westeros. And while she knew that they would both carry their own burdens of tragedy and hurt for the rest of their lives, somehow everything felt a little lighter, a little more easily managed.

A warm smile spread across Sansa’s face and, with their hands still latched together, she turned and began to lead him back out of the wood, under the stone archway, and into Winterfell. The sun was touching the horizon now and most of the castle’s inhabitants had made their way into the Great Hall for supper. As they walked past, Sansa could see the light from the fires through the high windows and hear the din of laughter and conversation. But she continued on, leading Theon past the Hall, past the yard, through the serpentine passageways into the Great Keep, and up the tall spiral staircase.

When they reached the door that led into Sansa’s chamber, she finally came to a halt, turning to look at her companion, searching him for hesitation, for permission. But, he put a hand up on the great wooden door and pushed it open, spilling light out into the dim hallway. She bit her lip and pulled him into the room after her.

With the door shut behind them, they stood together wordlessly, hands intertwined, the fire crackling softly in the hearth and the daylight fading from the window. In her chest, Sansa’s heart hammered out a steady rhythm. She felt nervous, but it wasn’t the racing anxiety from their previous encounter. It was more of an eager anticipation, a desire for the intimacy she so craved.

He studied her face, his eyes gentle. She’d spent a lifetime being stared at, gawked at, pointed at and whispered about, but it was so different being under Theon’s gaze. When he looked at her, she could feel him looking past all the masks she wore and directly into her true self, the self she wanted to show to the world, but it was too delicate, too fragile. He knew her, and there was a peace in that, in the ability to shed her armor and present the truth of herself to someone without fear.

Once again, he reached up to hold her cheek in his hand. Letting out a breath, she closed her eyes and pressed her face to his touch. His hands were always so warm. Soon, she felt his lips against hers. She met him, parting her lips to invite him to deepen their embrace. He obliged, his tongue slipping into her mouth, as his hands found her waist, pulling her close to him. She brought her arms up around his neck, her fingers losing themselves in his soft curls. 

Eventually, his kisses trailed across her cheekbone and to the soft skin just above the collar of her dress. His warm breath on her ear made her sigh and she tightened her grasp in his hair. On her waist, she felt Theon’s hands glide over the smooth leather of her belt, searching for its buckle. When his fingers settled on it, he paused.

“Is this alright?” he whispered in her ear. She nodded against his cheek before pressing a kiss to it.

His fingers worked at the fastener, until the leather loosened and fell away to the floor. He ran his hands along her sides, over the lush, fur-like texture of her dress. She brought her arms down along his chest, running her hands over the taught leather of his armor, her finger tracing the roughly carved kraken emblazoned upon it. Finding his hand again, Sansa led him over to a chair by the fire, seated him and began loosening the fasteners of his pauldrons.

“It was always my dream to take armor off a knight,” she admitted, biting her lip to suppress a smile. She’d meant it cheekily, but her words clearly struck something inside of Theon, and he took hold of the front of her dress and stole another passionate kiss. When he let her go, something meaningful shone in his eyes.

Sansa licked her lip before returning her attentions to his armor. At last, the final fastener gave way and she pulled his chest piece over his head, setting it aside. She then knelt at his side, giving his boot a tug.

“You’re beautiful, did you know that?” he whispered to her, reaching out to touch her red waves. Her looks had been commented on by so many people over the course of her life, to the point that she’d almost come to distrust the compliment altogether as it almost always prefaced someone attempting to pry something out of her. But, like so many things, it was different with Theon. Hearing the words from his lips brought forth such a flush to her cheeks, a flush which traveled down past the collar of her dress.

With his boots off, he immediately stood, taking Sansa in his arms again. Her hands pressed against his chest, the metal rivets of his jacket cool under her fingers, before finally setting to work on the worn, waxed laces that closed it. Carefully, Sansa began pulling them out, one by one. With the last lace pulled, she slid her hands up under the leather of his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders and down his arms, joining his boots and armor on the floor.

Eager to catch Sansa up to his state of undress, Theon began undoing the closures on the front of her gown. With the last hook undone, he slid the dark fabric off her and let it pool around her feet. She stepped out of the mound of clothing, toeing off her boots as she went. Theon’s hands reached out for her again, pulling her close, his fingers running up the back lacing of her stays.

“Ah—it’s just a slipknot at the top—” she’d begun to explain in his ear, but he already had the knot loosed and was working to unlace the garment. She pulled her face back from his, smiling as she narrowed her eyes at him.

“What?” he asked, but his crooked grin betrayed him. “Can’t fault a man for knowing his way around a garment.” Sansa couldn’t help but laugh, shimmying the loosened stay down over her hips. 

With her undergarment gone, she stood before Theon in just her stockings and her thin, white shift. She felt incredibly bare and her arms itched to cover herself, but she resisted the urge. She refused to feel embarrassed in front of this man, the one person she could be truly vulnerable to. With Theon, she didn’t need to be a stalwart queen, a defender of the realm, she didn’t need to be anything. She could simply  _ be _ , just as she was. She could feel his eyes taking her in and suddenly she became aware of the heat growing between her thighs.

Theon brushed a stray hair off her shoulder, the sensation making her shiver, and revealed a thin white sliver on her skin, a remnant of time spent with her last captor. He ran his thumb along it before placing the gentlest of kisses upon it. Her eyes briefly fluttered closed, and when they reopened, she saw Theon tugging loose the knot at the neck of his undershirt. It gave way and she saw him take a breath before pulling the shirt up over his back and head and then cast it to the floor.

Sansa had seen Theon’s scars before, when she’d tended to him during his recovery at Winterfell. However, it had always been a glancing look, her eyes quickly darting away—it’d felt invasive, to stare at the icons of his injury without his permission. But here, with him standing before her, she took them in clearly. They had all healed and some had faded, but most of them he would carry the rest of his life.

She reached out a hand tracing along the white slashes, from the top of his shoulder down to his most recent injury at the hands of the wild boar. Her hands stopped shy at the waist of his leggings, not wanting to repeat her previous mistakes. He caught her hand in his again and for a moment, Sansa’s heart dropped. But instead, he laid a delicate kiss on her palm and released her, before moving his hands to the lacing of his pants.

Fervently, she shook her head. “You don’t have to—” she began to whisper.

“I know,” he said, his smile gentle and his hands deliberate. When he had them undone, Sansa slid her hands under the leather, pushing them down over his hips and around his strong thighs. He kicked them off the rest of the way and stood before her, fully bare.

It was at that moment that Sansa realized that she had never particularly given much thought to what might remain of Theon’s anatomy. All the stories and rumors and even Theon himself seemed to indicate that there was nothing left of him but, to the contrary, he was still surprisingly intact. While he now bore the ragged scars of an untrained knife, there still remained about the length of her finger and it stood, fully erect.

Theon’s shoulders were taut with uneasiness, his mouth pressed into a hard line. Sansa smoothed her hands over his tight muscles before pulling him into a deep kiss. Just as she refused to feel shame for the acts committed against her body, she refused to allow Theon the same self-deprecation. He held on tight to her, his hands grasping the wispy fabric of her gown.

“You’re beautiful, did you know that?” she breathed the echo of his words on his lips when they broke apart. He let out a sigh and pressed his forehead to hers. 

“You don’t have to have me,” he offered, clearly trying to allow her a graceful escape.

“And what if I want you?” she countered. It was no lie for the sake of his vanity: having him naked in her arms only deepened the desire she felt in the pit of her stomach. “Now,” she continued, holding his gaze, “are you going to pull this gown off or must I do that myself?”

Her boldness lit up his face and he obliged, pulling the shift up over her head before smoothing her now-tousled hair with his hands. His hands traveled south, one pulling her close to him again while the other cupped her breast, massaging it tenderly. A small moan escaped her lips, her nipples hardening under his touch.

As Theon touched her, Sansa found herself wondering how best to proceed. Tentatively, she ran a finger along the muscle of Theon’s thigh. Had he always had such strong legs and she’d never noticed?

“Can I—” she began hesitantly, pulling her face back from his. “That is—does it hurt?”

He shook his head and so Sansa, praying that she was not about to not make an absolute fool of herself, raised her hand to her mouth. Wetting her thumb and forefinger, she slowly pulled them from her lips. Carefully, she took Theon’s length between them and ran them along him, from base to end, and back again. He gasped from the contact and Sansa took that as an encouraging sign.

“Is that alright?” she asked and he immediately nodded, his breaths coming out ragged as he settled his head on her shoulder. She continued on with a slow and steady pace, unsure of what Theon’s stamina might be and not wanting to see a quick end to their evening. His breath was heavy in her ear and she felt his hands relax on her body. 

Hoping that he now felt a bit more at ease—and unable to ignore the wants of her own body any further—Sansa eased her tempo down to a stop, before taking his hand and leading him towards her bed. She laid down atop the soft furs, guiding him on top of her, his narrow hips settling between her thighs. Sansa was not wholly certain of the mechanics of this venture, but, she’d told herself that fortune favored the brave.

Biting her lip, she shifted her hips down closer to Theon before slipping a hand down between them to adjust him against her. She let out a breath as his length pressed against her most sensitive spot, sweet sensations rippling down her legs. Slowly, she began moving her hips against him, Theon doing the same. It was a few stops and starts to begin but they soon united in a steady rhythm. Sansa relaxed back into the furs, her wrists wrapping over the back of Theon’s neck. With each move against her, she felt her climax building further and further, but more than that, she reveled in the closeness of him: of the pressure of him against her thighs, of his hand running down along her side before pulling up behind her knee.

Her breaths came faster and breathy cries slipped out between her lips as her pleasure steadily mounted toward its peak. But as they pressed on, Sansa noted that Theon’s movements became more labored, more stunted. He was holding back, she realized, trying to defer his own satisfaction until she’d found hers. She took his face into her hands, brushing the hair from his eyes with her fingers.

“It’s alright,” she reassured him. “Don’t wait for me.” And she pulled him into an earnest kiss, as he thrust against her with a renewed vigor. Moments later, their kiss broke apart as Theon let out a grunt of release, his lover’s name on his lips. His hips jutted against her as his climax washed over him and Sansa felt a warm wetness on her thigh.

He collapsed into her, his shoulders heaving, and she welcomed it, her fingers tracing the length of his spine. The weight of him upon her was a comfort, the warmth of his skin pressed to her own. For so long she had divided herself off from the world, bound herself tightly in her clothing so the world would know that she would not be touched without her consent ever again. But even though it was self-made, it was still like a prison, and she’d felt so starved for the freedom of connection and companionship that she began to wonder if she’d ever feel safe enough to pursue it again.

But here, she finally found her haven. Her hands roamed over Theon, exploring him, wanting to drink in the very feel of him. She wanted to know every curve, every protrusion of bone, every raised scar, lest she only have the memory of this night.

When he’d recovered, he pushed himself up and Sansa found herself already missing the contact. But the absence was quickly forgotten as he trailed light kisses down along her breasts and the heat between her legs reignited. His lips lingered on her abdomen, his tongue circling around her navel, the anticipation of it all making her burn all the hotter, before he continued his trek downward. 

Deftly, he slid his shoulders under her thighs and piled a thick fur beneath her hips to better his access to her. And finally, at long last, he pressed his lips against her wet heat, eliciting a sigh from Sansa. With short quick strokes, his tongue parted her lips before lathering attention on her sweet pearl. 

Sansa had learned much about Theon in their recent time together, but tonight she was discovering the depth of his aptitude as a lover. It seemed he could read her like a book: every moan, every gasp, every tightening of her hand in his hair, he interpreted and adapted his attentions to her. Sometimes his pace slowed and other times it quickened, alternating between sweet kisses from his lips or gentle strokes from his fingers. More than once he brought her to the brink of climax before easing his rhythm and backing her away, so that the anticipation of her peak of pleasure grew tenfold.

In the back of Sansa’s mind, her thoughts drifted to their first conversation in the godswood and Theon’s teenaged dream of marrying her. The Sansa of so many years ago would have surely been disappointed in the match, but she found herself wondering if perhaps his talent as such an attentive lover would have won her over.

Her musings on the possibilities of her other lives were quickly dashed away, however, as she felt the ache of desire stirring in the pit of her stomach and spreading down her thighs. She opened her mouth to almost beg Theon to let her crest the wave of her pleasure, but before the plea could escape her, he quickened his rhythm and soon her rapture was crashing over her, wave after delicious wave.

As she worked to catch her breath, she sank against the softness of the furs, the warmth of her ecstasy washing through her body, relaxing her. Theon re-appeared beside her, lazily stroking her side with a finger, and Sansa blinked her eyes open to look at him.

“Good?” He asked the question he certainly already had the answer to, barely able to conceal his crooked half-grin. 

“Yes,” she breathed heavily, rolling towards him. “Good.”

Quickly, he swiped at his face with the back of his hand, before leaning in to take another kiss from her. Even after all her time with Margaery, the taste of herself on another’s lips still brought a flush to her cheeks.

Smiling coyly, Theon swung himself off the bed, striding over to her side table to pour them each a cup of wine. Sansa gingerly sat herself up, pulling her thighs up to her chest to rest her chin on her knees. She bit her lip as she snuck another look at her new lover. The confines of both Northern and Ironborn fashion had clearly hidden some of his best features: the strength in his shoulders, the sloping curve of his calves. Her teeth tightened on her bottom lip and she felt a gentle ebb between her thighs again.

When he turned back to her, she shifted her gaze quickly, but it was too late. She’d been caught. “Not very lady-like to stare,” he teased, passing the cup to her. She clasped it with both hands and took a long drink. When she’d finished, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and tried to suppress a smile.

“What’s on your mind, then?” he asked, pressing a kiss to her cheek before taking a seat alongside her.

Sansa exhaled through her nose. “Nothing, really,” she replied, running her thumb along the rim of her cup. “I’m just… happy. I think I might’ve forgotten what that felt like.” 

For a while, they held each other’s gaze, once again enjoying the easy quiet that so often grew between them. There was never any performing with Theon, Sansa had come to discover. Never a need to fill the void of conversation with empty words, never a need to put on any of the personas she’d been forced to create over her lifetime. There was joy and peace to be found simply by existing together, a feeling that she’d come to wholly cherish and something she did not want to lose.

Her conversation with Yara Greyjoy floated into her mind and the simple happiness that had swelled within her moments ago began to fade. Soon, Yara would need to return to her own kingdom, her own people, and, as it stood, Theon would follow her back, bringing an end to their time together. But how could she ask him to stay? Winterfell had served as a prison for him both in his youth and in his adulthood—it was filled with painful memories and painful ghosts. And how could she ask him to give up his heritage, his homeland, and the last bit of family he had remaining in this world? And in exchange for what?

Her hands tightened around her cup. Theon’s brow furrowed in concern, as if he could feel the shift in her mood like a sailor felt a shift in the wind at sea.

“What is it?” he asked, the worry written all over him. Sansa shook her head.

“I want you to stay, but I’m afraid to ask.” She struggled to keep her tone light with humor, but to no success. 

He reached out to put a comforting hand on her knee. “Of course I’ll stay—and I promise not to slip out like a thief in the morning.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” she whispered, her heart hammering in her chest.

He watched her for a moment. “You want me to stay at Winterfell,” he guessed at last. Sansa nodded, unable to meet his eye.

“But I know that—I know it’s too much. It’s too much to ask. This place has only ever been a prison for you.”

“Not always,” he corrected her gently.

“And what about Yara?” she countered.

That grin played at his lips again. “Interestingly enough, my dear sister has told me, in so many words, that if I try to return to Pyke with her, she will have me defenestrated before I can even board the ship.”

“Be serious,” she chided, a smile finding its way back onto her face. 

“I  _ am _ serious. And I’m fairly certain Yara is, too.”

Once again, Sansa studied the man sitting opposite her and he studied her back, his eyes narrowing at her over his cup of wine as he took a drink. 

“Would you really stay here? Make Winterfell your home?” she pressed.

He dropped his cup back to his lap, the green-blue depths of his eyes as serious as ever. “Sansa, my home is with you.”

Unbidden tears came to the edges of her eyes. It was true for her as well. Winterfell was the home of her father, and his before him, and so on through the long history of the Starks. She had struggled and risked and maneuvered and sent men to die to reclaim it from usurpers and protect it from the horrors of the undead. She was safe within Winterfell, she was  _ powerful _ within Winterfell, but all that security felt thin and faded without Theon at her side. Winterfell was stones and mortar, but it was Theon who made it her home.

Smiling, he took her cup from her hands and set it aside with his, before lacing his fingers into hers. “That is, of course,” he began softly, “if you’ll have me.”

A swell of elation rushed through her heart at his words, and through her tears, she pushed her lips to his. He welcomed them, returning her kiss with equal fervor. And there it was, the wholeness that she always seemed to be missing, at last realized. The quiet ache that she had carried in her heart for so long was at last lifted, replaced with a lightness that seemed to make her heart soar.

She broke away from him, only to whisper quietly against his lips, “I love you.”

He stole another kiss before returning her words. “I love you, too, Sansa. I always have.”

A smile lighted upon her lips and she gave his hand a tight squeeze before slipping herself beneath the bedcovers, Theon quickly following suit. They laid facing one another and she reached out to brush her fingertips along his sharp cheekbone. Part of her felt like she needed to confirm that he was real, that it was all real, and not just a trick of her mind. Her dreams could be so vivid lately and she did not want to wake up from this.

“Will you miss it? Pyke?” she asked him at last.

He brought his eyebrows together thoughtfully before answering. “Yes and no. I’ll miss the smell of the sea, but I won’t miss the cold. It’s a different kind of cold from up here—a wet cold. It cuts through you. And,” he added, with a heavy sigh, “I will both miss and not miss Yara.”

A laugh erupted from Sansa. “She’s always welcome here.”

“I’ve told you before, Sansa—do not tell her that. You will  _ never _ be rid of her,” he cautioned her with a grin. “In fact, I should probably be booting her out of here before she makes another advance on you.”

“Do you really think she has a liking for me?” asked Sansa dubiously. “I half-assumed she was just trying to get a rise out of you.”

“The two are not mutually exclusive, Sansa,” he told her pointedly.

Sansa rubbed her chin with her finger. “I’m beginning to wonder if I made the right choice, if I asked the correct Greyjoy sibling to stay—”

Her words were barely past her lips before Theon had pulled her into a kiss. “Quiet, you,” he muttered against her, and she could feel the smile on his lips. She returned the kiss, her fingers gliding over the stubble along his jaw. Their embrace began as playful, but there was something about the weight of his hand on her hip that sparked want anew within her. Sansa lightly pressed herself against him, measuring to see if perhaps his passion matched hers.

He kissed her deeply, before pushing her hip away from him, rolling her so that her back now pressed against his chest. He smoothed her auburn hair from her shoulder, allowing his mouth access to the soft skin of her neck. She sighed as his tongue traced soft circles under her ear, his teeth lightly nipping at her flesh. He spread his palm wide over her hip bone, before dragging it up along her stomach, and finally over her breast, massaging it in soft circles. Sansa’s breath came heavier now, his ministrations stoking high the fire that once again burned inside her.

Finally, she felt him lift his mouth to her ear, his voice soft as silk against it. “Spread your legs for me.” Immediately, she obliged, slipping her leg up and over his. There was something about his words, his tone, the way he held her from behind—perhaps it was the fact that he was the only person in the world whom she could relinquish control to, whom she could trust to give herself over to completely. It made her burn ever hotter for him and when he at last touched her, it felt all the sweeter.

It came as no surprise to Sansa that he was equally skilled with his hands as he was his mouth. His movements were slow to begin, caressing her wet folds with long, soft strokes. As before, his touch was almost tantalizing and she nearly whimpered to feel his full touch. At last, his thumb began to rub tight circles on her clitoris, causing Sansa to gasp with passion, her arm reaching back to find a hold in his hair. She could feel herself climbing steadily to her peak, sweet desire emanating along her thighs.

Gently, he pressed two fingers into her wetness and continued to stimulate her from inside. Her hips found his rhythm, rocking against him almost desperately as she sought her climax. And then the wave of pleasure broke over her, sending riptides coursing through her body. Her grip in his curls tightened and he softened his movements on her, helping her ride out the tide of her peak.

Eventually her hand fell away from him, a sweet relaxation blanketing all her muscles. “Theon…” she whispered his name, part prayer, part praise. A kiss found its way to her cheek.

“Sleep well, Sansa,” came his velvet voice, so sweet in her ear. And with no further convincing, she slipped away into a peaceful slumber.

* * *

Sansa was grateful for a dreamless sleep. Her eyes blinked open to the cool morning light, just barely cresting through her window. When she stirred, she realized her arm was draped over Theon Greyjoy’s chest, and his was wrapped around her shoulders, holding her close to him. She breathed deep, enjoying the peace of the moment, the steady rising and falling of his chest. She shifted her hips and it was enough to rouse him, his fingers dancing lightly on the round of her shoulder. 

“Good morning,” came his groggy voice, eyes still closed. She smiled.

“Good morning to you,” she replied, her hand splayed wide on his pale chest. 

“I imagine I need to get up.” He attempted to rub the sleep out of his eyes, but Sansa clung to him.

“Not yet,” she pleaded. Everything felt so perfect and she wasn’t ready to leave it behind and face the challenges of the day. 

He shot her a look out of the corner of his eye, his fingers still stroking her shoulder. “Shall I keep you occupied for a bit then?” His suggestion made her feel shy, especially after their long night together. A small laugh escaped her as she buried her face in his neck.

“I want to, but… I may never leave this bed again. And then I’ll have declared a free and independent North for nothing.”

He nodded sagely. “Fair enough.” And with that, he reached over his other arm, pulling her fully into his embrace. She let out a breath, willing herself to remain present in the moment, to enjoy the warmth of him, his soft skin, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. They stayed like that for a long while, before, far off in the castle, Sansa began to hear the stirring of the beginning of the day. Theon was the first to move, placing a sweet kiss to her forehead before sliding out from under the bedcovers. As he began collecting his strewn about clothing, she propped herself up on her hand, watching him.

“Are you staring again?” he asked coyly, turning his trousers right side out before stepping into them.

She dropped her eyes. “I’ll stop if you mind it.”

But he turned to her with that slanted grin, and replied, “I don’t.”

As he continued amassing his clothing back together, a thought suddenly struck Sansa and she slipped out of bed as well, pulling on her dressing robe as she went. “I forgot,” she began, crossing over to her desk and retrieving a bundle wrapped in wax paper. “I have something for you.”

Theon finished tugging on his shirt as Sansa presented the parcel to him. He looked at it curiously before pulling the paper off to reveal a doublet, rendered in rich, supple leather of a deep slate. And, emblazoned on the front of it, stretching on the shoulder, was the sigil that Sansa had embroidered for him during his recuperation. Reverently, he ran his fingers over the delicate needlework, the oceans of his eyes clouding over with a mist.

“I finished the stitching,” she offered. “So, the direwolf looks like a proper wolf now, and not a bear.” She waited for a verbal reaction and when it didn’t come, she prompted him. “Do you like it?”

“It’s perfect,” he breathed, before pulling her into a kiss.

That afternoon, they paid a visit to Yara in her chambers. After pulling open her door and seeing the two of them standing there, she leaned against the stone frame, appraising them skeptically. And then, at last, she pulled them both into a tight embrace, the strength of which impressed Sansa. Yara muttered an indistinct  _ took you long enough _ before calling down the corridor at a passing steward that ale was needed and immediately and pulled the pair into her room.

The three of them spent the next few hours laughing and drinking, with Yara telling several amusing stories from their youth, most of which made Theon grimace and cover his face with his hand. Sansa wondered if she had ever felt so at home in her life and felt a deep disappointment when a maid came at last to summon them to supper.

Thankfully, their playful conversation continued in the Great Hall with Yara frequently and with increasing drunkenness calling for toasts to a successful Greyjoy-Stark alliance, often causing Sansa to now grimace and cover her own face. As the fires began to dwindle, Sansa called an end to the evening, earning many protests from the Ironborn Queen which were swiftly ignored by Theon and Sansa, who eventually shouldered their incapacitated companion back to the Keep.

After safely depositing the eldest Greyjoy in her bed, Sansa led Theon to her own chamber. As she fell asleep atop Theon’s bare chest, she made a note to herself that, in the morning, she would instruct Lyselle to have Theon’s things moved into her room.

* * *

At last, the day came, the day for which Sansa felt as if her whole life had been slowly building towards.

It was cooler today than it had been since the North had begun to thaw, and as she stood outside the Great Hall trying to calm her racing heart, her breath came out in thin white wisps. Lyselle had accompanied her on the long walk over from the Great Keep, carrying her skirts over mud puddles both big and small. Now she fussed over her Queen, fanning out her train, polishing spots on her metal breastplate with her sleeve, smoothing down the occasional red flyaway. When she was satisfied, she stepped back to survey the Northern Queen fully.

“You look perfect, Your Grace,” she effused, hands clasped tightly in admiration. Sansa gave her a nod of kind acknowledgement, before gesturing to the tall wooden door. Hurriedly, her maid crossed over to it, pulling one side open with both her hands.

Sansa’s boots clicked onto the dark stone floor, drawing all eyes to her. She held her place for a moment, her feet desperately wanting to rush towards her destination, her great carved throne, but she forced herself into a deliberate pace. The Northern lords needed to see her, chin held high, piercing blue eyes fastened ever forward. It would not do to scamper along like a frightened child.

The throne, decorated in proud, snarling direwolves, grew ever closer. She kept her eyes trained on it, letting the faces of the lords and leaders—some grim, some unconvinced, some satisfied—glide past her. But as she reached the end of her procession, two specific faces stood out from the crowd: one wore a cocky half-smile and a nod of approval, while the other looked at her with such tender pride, her chest could not help but tighten. A faint smile played upon her lips as she met both their gazes.

After what felt like a long eternity, she reached her rightful place and turned to look out upon the crowd, skirts sweeping behind her dramatically. She felt the weight of the silver crown come to rest on her head, pride and honor swelling within her as the assembly drew their swords and began chanting her title.

_ The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North! _

That night, as Theon laid sweet kisses on her bare shoulder, he whispered to her how proud Robb and her parents would be.

* * *

It was not long after Sansa’s coronation—and Theon’s announcement that he would be making Winterfell his home—that Yara decided the time was nigh for her to return to her own kingdom in Pyke. If she was gone too long, she’d explained to Sansa, it was almost certain that she would come home to some headstrong fool trying to seat himself on the Salt Throne. The Brothers of the Red Hand had not been wholly flushed out of the North, however, Yara seemed unconcerned.

“You’ve got my best military advisor now,” Yara had laughed. “You’ll have them crushed in no time.”

It was a crisp, breezy morning when Sansa and Theon bade Yara and her retainer farewell in the Winterfell courtyard. The Ironborn Queen had clasped her brother’s forearm before pulling him into a tight embrace, awkwardly coughing in an attempt to mask her emotion.

“What is dead may never die,” she’d told him, her eyes a mix of pride and loss. 

He repeated the old words back to her, adding, “Don’t be a stranger, Yara.”

Yara turned to Sansa, embracing her similarly. “I’ll miss you, Red Wolf. Almost as much as I’ll miss your sweet wine,” she’d added with a wink. “You’ll have to bring some of it with you when you visit Pyke.”

Sansa smiled warmly. “I will,” she promised. “Thank you for everything, Your Grace.” Yara gave her a firm nod before clapping her tightly on the shoulder.

* * *

It was the next moonturn when Sansa found herself walking towards the godswood. The moon hung high in the sky, casting a ghostly light through the thin branches of the trees. She carried her skirts in her hands, her dress made of a beautifully woven silk that was at once white and at once silver. A pure white pelt sat on her shoulders, pinned on one side with a fish brooch and on the other with a direwolf.

When she made it to the clearing with the heart tree, she found Theon conversing quietly with Maester Wolkan. At the sound of her approaching footsteps, their conversation stopped and they turned to face her. At last she took her place beside Theon, her heart flapping inside her chest like a caged bird.

The maester handed each of them a folded cloak that he had over his arm. Theon wrapped his around Sansa’s shoulders, a grey cloak emblazoned with a kraken, before Sansa wrapped hers around Theon’s, a black cloak with a bright white direwolf. They then took each other’s hands, looking deep into one another’s eyes. They recited the old words, the maester binding their hands together. And when it was done, they pressed their lips together in a gentle kiss, finally bound as one.

And so they lived the rest of their days: not every day was happy or easy, but within each other, they found equal shares of strength and comfort. There were nights when one would wake up shivering from a nightmare, but the other was always there to stroke their hair and chase the old ghosts away. Friends and family and allies came to their doorstep and were always welcomed and when they bade them farewell, Sansa’s heart hurt a little less because she knew that in Theon, she had found a sense of home.


End file.
